21st Century Breakdown
by Canadino
Summary: World War Two was a long four years. This is their story. Well, I just wanna see the light!
1. Song of the Century

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track 1 – Song of the Century

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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21st Century Breakdown!

One – Song of the Century

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_Sing us a song of the century…_

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It had been a difficult four years. Austria had been the first to scream _foul!_ and the whole world exploded. Hungary had immediately backed up her partner after the assassination, while Russia supported Franz's death and frowned upon the couple. Of course, that started a tizzy, what with Russia being an unstable land-hungry nation after all, and instantly the two built a defense in case a certain white haired male appeared on the door step, eager for unification. Germany, a close friend and neighbor, was included in this Dual Alliance and together, the two (Austria and Hungary could be considered one and the same) stood defiant.

It was partially France's fault. If he and Germany didn't get in an argument about Morocco, perhaps the Alliance wouldn't have happened. But Germany had been pressured to avoid another confrontation. No one wanted any more groping than necessary.

And he…well…

They were afraid of France too. Well, that wasn't totally true…they had all used to be young nations together but France reached puberty that brought along the desire to conquer, and they had been stepped upon one too many times. Italy would support any part of him, and if Romano thought it was a good idea, it was a good idea.

It was a long four years.

What made it worse, maybe, was how they had turned in the middle of the action. One moment, Italy was standing behind Austria and Hungary as they started advancing on the home front and the next, Romano had pulled him into an alliance with England, France, and Russia. How ironic was it they supported the very nation they had been trying to avoid? But wartime was wartime, and although traitors were dishonored, the Allies supposed their new turncoats, on the borders of their enemies, would deliver a swift victory.

Caporetto had been a long fight. Italy stood by his brother's side as Hungary pushed Austria away, shooting a look of disappointment at their direction. It was hurtful to see someone he considered a big sister to look at him like that. He reached for Romano's hand and gripped it.

The Allies' reactions weren't too different. "Useless," England spat, angry to waste troops to protect their new ally. "Completely _useless_."

"Stay out of the fight and let France-nii-chan take care of it, okay?" France said, winking. Italy felt the same shame Romano felt, standing tall even as Romano squeezed his hand tighter. They were a completely capable nation. The others didn't have to talk as if they were only five.

Yes, it had been a long, agonizing four years.

And what did they have to show for it?

"Stupid," Romano hissed, glaring at the scars from the war in the morning, "Paris Peace Treaty." Italy watched his brother silently from the bed, ignoring the stale bandages on his own wounds as he observed his twin wrap the scars in fresh white. "Stupid," Romano continued, taking his anger out on the bandage that wouldn't rip, "England, France, and America. We fought too. We worked hard too. And what do we get?"

Italy winced as the roll of bandages bounced off the wall and hit the lamp next to the bed, knocking it onto the ground but not breaking it.

"I'm angry," Romano announced, to no surprise. "I'm angry, and I want what we deserve."

"We _did_ get something," Italy ventured, silenced when his twin shot a glare at him.

"Not enough," Romano said bitterly. "Not _nearly_ enough for what we suffered." And Italy knew what he meant, knew what their people were feeling, and it was all the same. And now, with their tiny ill-gained land, they were suffering from some stupid economical mistakes America, stupid young America, had gotten the whole into.

Italy understood, but what could he do?

New times called for new bosses. When Il Duce first approached the northern Vargas, the brunette had been hesitant of the change, but there were words of nationalism and Italian pride. They were words Italy liked to hear, and was sure Romano would want as well, but that didn't stop Il Duce from storming to Rome and demanding the south agree. Romano, noticing the work of the north, quickly agreed, but scolded his brother's ear off that night.

"But this is what we want, isn't it?" Italy asked quietly, holding his brother as Romano released the last of his nerves. "This is what we deserve, right?"

"That's right," Romano whispered. They were hidden from the big bad world, sitting small next to their bed as if they were still small and scheming childish plots. "This is what we want." Italy kissed his brother on the forehead.

"France dropped off a crate of tomatoes," Romano said one morning, sitting at the kitchen table. "Go pick it up."

And Italy went, it being closer to his border. And here he was, wandering around a forest, lost as always. _Useless_. But he wasn't useless. They had only looked out for themselves, only made a few bad decisions. Now was a time to make good ones, to not only look out for themselves but to provide for themselves. It was what their boss said. And bosses knew these things.

By pure chance, Italy stumbled upon the box, but it was empty.

An empty box. Empty promises. Italy had enough. He never showed his anger, never wanted to provoke his brother into more tantrums, but Italy kicked the box, the lid rattling and flying through the air onto the ground. They had waged the war, lost the fight. But they were more than that.

"I want me and my brother to be happy. I want us to be happy right now!" He was aware no one could hear him and was slightly satisfied to hear the call of birds as they took flight in sudden alarm. He wanted the other nations to understand, but he couldn't help it if their battle record was less than adequate.

Taking a breath, he supposed he couldn't have blamed France. Anger was unbecoming of him. Thinking rationally, maybe this wasn't the tomato crate Romano was talking about; maybe he stumbled upon a used crate. Feeling instantly stupid, Italy went to fetch the lid and started to put it on, willing to forget this instant of irrational thought and go on his way, when he heard a rustling nearby.

Panic flooded in him and he fought against the instinct of escape. Wasn't he just telling himself he was more than a useless nation? But there were lots of scary things out in the woods, be it bears or wolves or a perverted France. Gulping, Italy scanned his settings, seeing nothing but green and brown all over.

There it was again. Another rustling.

Italy cursed inwardly at his forgetfulness to bring a weapon. Nowadays, it was unwise to go out defenseless. Instability and government strife was hinting toward another major conflict in the development. A crack of a tree branch underfoot startled the peninsula and Italy found himself standing in the crate.

_Now how can a box protect me? Vee…~_ Whatever was lurking nearby was coming closer. Italy squatted down, holding the crate lid above his head. Ah! He could nail himself in. Quickly fitting the lid back in place, Italy watched quietly as he stayed in the stuffy box. His only regret was poor Romano would never know what had happened to him. There were only a few cracks in the box and Italy bit his lip to avoid crying out when someone appeared from the bushes.

--

…_sing us a song for me._

To be continued

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Note: Hi! Calling all capable, interested writers! I would love, love, love to collaborate with someone for this multi-fic! I am aware my collab record is like the Italies, as we never ended up finishing my last collab (but I love you anyway, G!), but I'm willing to give this thing another shake. In case you haven't read my previous fic, Pretty. Odd., I'm doing an Album Fic, where I take all the songs of a certain album and use them as inspiration for each chapter. This fic in question will be using the new Green Day album 21st Century Breakdown, so fans would be greatly appreciated. One with more time than I (and that's not much) to write and an adequate knowledge/willingness to research WW2 preferred. This is hopefully going to be more of a Gertalia, Sparomo, JOKER, etc. flavored fic. If you're interested, please drop me a PM!

Otherwise, a review for this first chappie would be greatly appreciated!


	2. 21st Century Breakdown

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track 2 – 21st Century Breakdown – Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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Two – 21st Century Breakdown

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_I think I'm losing what's left of my mind to the twentieth century deadline…_

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Another war. Another blasted war with deaths abound and national tensions on the side. It seemed all they were capable of was war after war after war.

But what else could they do? They were nations, separate entities ready to defend their borders at a drop of a hat. Fighting and grudges were about all they could do to prevent going completely mad.

Sometimes, England thought, he was getting much too old for childish games like this. Back in the day, war used to be fun; there was exhilaration that came from the struggle and well-deserved victory. No one thought a little island nation could exert that much power, and he used to conquer nation after nation.

But then he got older and time got crueler. For once, war broke his heart. He'd lost the only colony he had truly loved and everything had fallen downhill from there. He barely kept half of what he used to own, what with independence being such a popular new fad that all the little budding nations loved to indulge in.

The Great War had been a mistake to begin with, a stupid little dispute that dragged up the whole Europe into its mess. Afterwards, England had promised himself to abstain from such insignificant battles. His boss had agreed; had even tried to convince Germany to quit while he was ahead.

But now it seemed that they were heading toward another inevitable war again.

"I can't stand this anymore," England murmured to himself, locking himself in his office and curling up on the chair. He didn't want to fight anymore; he'd barely had time to catch his breath before Germany started making a ruckus and Russia reared his ugly head. Stupid Paris Peace Treaty, stupid arrogance pushing Germany to the edge, stupid Russia for refusing to take a stand against this new national threat. "I'm old," he continued to himself, hugging his knees to himself. "I can't take another war."

There was a knock on the door and England ignored it, drowning in his pity party. He needed more time to sulk alone. Didn't anyone have manners anymore, ring beforehand and all that jazz? But whoever it was seemed to have hands of keys and unlocked the door, and before England could protest, France waltzed in.

Waltzed would imply good mood. Edit: France shuffled in. England pulled himself out of such a vulnerable position and prepared himself for another dose of bad news. France, although the two had never quite gotten along, was his messenger from the main land and everything he said lately had never been good.

"Poland's in trouble," the ordinarily cheery nation said, looking frayed. "But we've known that for a while."

"What's the story?" England wondered how he could ever have taken such news with such grace. When America had told him he was taking no more, he had been devastated. But with age came maturity; no more would he grow angry and make irrational decisions. France collapsed in a seat across England.

"Germany, of course. It's like a vulture, darling. Anyone can see it; he's flying lower and lower and Poland's getting antsy. More than usual, I mean. It's always 'ohmigawd this' and 'ohmigawd that'. His paranoia is catching.

"And worse off, Germany's finding himself another nation on his team. It seems he's set his sights on our dear friend Italy."

"Well, Italy was never an important asset to begin with," England said dismissively. "We would never have counted on him for a good fight."

"True, I agree completely, but Italy hasn't been sitting by prettily either. There's aggression there, I can feel it. I don't like what's happening, England. This isn't good, and it's only going to get worse."

"It should have worked," England said quietly, almost to himself. "We've given him what he wants; shouldn't that be enough?" If he had just been lenient, sucked in his pride and offered America a few liberties of his own, maybe…maybe…

"It doesn't work that way nowadays, I'm afraid," France said sadly, shaking his head. "Mistakes have been made and giving in isn't always the best route."

Even a gigantic dose of that human-made confection, aspirin, would not be able to calm his migraine. "What should we do now?" France asked.

He was selfish; yes, always thinking about himself and his happiness… "Keep it in this general area," England replied, looking tired. "Please don't get too many other nations involved." He didn't need America coming again; watching America fight reminded him horribly of times past and there was always a gut-wrenching feeling he could never squash, even now. France could read him perfectly, cocking his head slightly.

"America will always poke his head into things that don't concern him, that little boy."

"Yes, but we don't need him dragging his inexperience all over the battlefield. This is an argument among the elders; we don't need his interruption."

France watched his friend and greatest rival with skepticism. "He will always help you, if not any of us. You weren't the only one affected by that schism only years ago."

America…

"That's it," England said briskly, cleaning up the stragglers from the finished pity party. "No use talking about what happened in the past. What we need to do is concentrate on stopping Germany before he gets too big for his boots. He needs a refitting and the faster we hop to it, the faster this whole thing can be over with."

France smiled thinly. "I don't always agree with you, England, but I too have had enough of this fighting."

--

Anyone, _anyone_, Italy realized, would not leave a box sitting in the middle of their path alone. Before he could think of a rational way out, the person outside was already rattling the crate lid.

"_Eek!" _Italy covered his mouth, but it was too late. The shaking stopped for a moment, before the rattling started. He was being tossed about in a tiny box!

"Who is it?" the person called, in a gruff, unfriendly voice.

"It's…it's…" He didn't want to be dragged into this! He caught a whiff of gunpowder on the man outside and thought quickly – though not necessarily thoroughly. "I'm a tomato box fairy!" Italy cried, wracking his brain frantically. "Don't open me!"

"Is that so." The pulling at the crate lid didn't stop.

"Stop!" Italy shouted, trying to keep the lid on. "You…you don't want to see my insides, do you? It's gross! Leave poor little me alone! I'm only a tomato box fairy!!"

And in one swift motion, the cover was torn off and Italy covered his head, ready for whatever act of violence may come. He felt no barrel of a gun pressed to his head nor the blade of a knife pushed into his back and Italy almost squeaked when someone reached down and pulled him up by the collar as if he were a puppy.

"Who are you?" Italy looked up into a pair of icy blue eyes. He felt slightly nauseous, a feeling he felt rarely and was momentarily speechless.

_Holy Roman Empire_.

No, it wasn't. It couldn't be. Holy Roman Empire was dead, dead as a doornail, and everyone knew that. It wasn't Holy Roman Empire but it was, but it wasn't. It wasn't Holy Roman Empire with that serious look. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't! Italy burst into frantic tears.

"Don't hurt me!" he wailed, sure of this ghostly apparition. This reincarnation of Holy Roman Empire was wielding a stick and there was a shotgun strapped to his back. "Please! I'll do anything! I've got family where you live! Just please don't hurt me!" He wasn't making any sense, but neither was the situation.

Holy Roman Empire was dead.

Wasn't he?

The stern blonde Holy Roman Empire look-a-like seemed rather put out. "I was here to find Rome's ancestors…but surely you're not one?" There seemed more confusion than the inclination to violence. Italy leapt on the familiar reference.

"Grandpa Rome? You knew him? Yes! He was my grandpa!" Who was this? Who…who knew about his beloved grandpa who wanted to conquer the whole of Europe? Italy felt his knees give out beneath him; Holy Roman Empire was the one who wanted the same exact thing.

"So you're Italy." There was a hint of disappointment, a note that rang bitterly in Italy's ears. It wasn't Holy Roman Empire; no, that boy would never say anything in that voice like that. It was someone completely different. Germany. Yes, the name was coming back to him. This was Germany, his former ally that he never got to know during the Great War before Romano told him to switch sides. An old friend.

He didn't complain or resist when he was led away to Germany's house, forgetting completely about the tomato crate that still lay somewhere in the forest, waiting for him to find it. At this point, he had started his involvement with this now infamous nation. Trouble by association; yes, now, surely he would be pulled into this new war.

--

There were orders; yes, there were always orders. Italy, despite this babbling about some new friend he made, was summoned with him to the boss's chambers. Il Duce looked each twin in the eye seriously, looking in complete control.

"I have two missions for the both of you," he started. "The first mission is to invade Ethiopia. The second is to step into Spain's civil war. Which of you will take which mission?"

There was a moment of stunned silence. Italy opened his mouth to speak when Romano suddenly cut in. "I'll go to Spain," the elder twin said breathlessly, too distracted to notice the surprised look his younger brother gave him. Il Duce nodded satisfactorily.

"Then you will march on to Ethiopia, Feliciano. Good. I was afraid you two would argue about which one or refuse to do either, but I guess I worried for nothing. I hope you two will do me proud."

"Romano," Feliciano murmured as they passed each other in the hallway. "I'm glad you're going to see Spain-nii. I would have let you go anyway."

Romano frowned indignantly. "I'm not going to see him for him. Someone's got to check in once in a while on the smiley bastard."

"Of course," Feliciano giggled.

The civil war was breathing its last anyway. Romano rushed past the men he brought along as he entered Spain's house, haunted slightly by the absence of change in the four walls. For once, he felt small again, and if the shouts outside could be dimmed, he could pretend he was still young and finding his way in this stupid, big house. But each step reminded him he was Italy, he was a full-grown nation now. No more would he get lost; he knew where Spain was and he would find him.

Romano burst into the study and found Spain just where he expected; sitting dazed in his former boss's seat, as if he had been hypnotized. The curly dark-haired nation's green eyes were glossy as he stared ahead, uncomprehending.

"Oh, Spain," Romano whispered, closing the door behind him and crossing the room. "Spain, Spain, Spain…" Spain didn't reply or give indication that he had heard, still continuing his gaze in the front. Romano hesitated momentarily before climbing into Spain's lap and forcing the unresponsive nation to look at him.

"Boss, it's me. It's Romano, dammit." The eyes were still glossy and Romano kissed them both. "It's going to be okay, because I'm here and you couldn't take care of it yourself, you bastard." Kiss, kiss. "_Innamorato,_ wake up." Kiss. "Boss, it's over now." Taking a breath, Romano dove into a steamy kiss enough to wake the dead. Slowly, like a phoenix in the ashes, Spain wrapped his arms around the Italian kissing the sense out of him.

"Stupid boss," Romano murmured, relieved to see clear green eyes again. "Your kid had to come save you."

Spain smiled thinly. "_Gracias,_ Romano. That was certainly a delicious kiss."

Romano flushed, before turning serious. "Boss, I've got a warning for you. I'm sure you've heard that something bad's going to happen soon in Europe. So help me God, please promise me you won't get involved in it no matter what happens. You're like this and I won't let you get wrapped up in our stupid fights. Don't get involved."

A hint of regret crossed Spain's face but the tight smile remained. "I don't think I could even if I wanted to. Will you be okay?"

"Of course," Romano huffed. "I'm Italy, after all."

"I won't fight," Spain promised, tapping his forehead against the smaller nation's. "But I'll always help you if you need me. I wouldn't be me if I didn't."

"Stupid boss." Romano sighed and rested his head against Spain's. "It's going to be another long one, I'm afraid."

--

_Believe what you see from heroes and cons._

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To be continued

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Note: …I kind of don't want to collab anymore. Mostly because I outlined the story and found out I had all the ideas I needed. I mean, sure, it's going to involve lots of work and time, which I have none of both, but I'll pitter along surely. Hopefully. Thanks for reading, and review, please!


	3. Know Your Enemy

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track 3 – Know Your Enemy – Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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Three – Know Your Enemy

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_Do you know your enemy?_

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It was unbecoming. It was utterly horrific that a nation such as him was in this position. There had been no warning, as there never was, and China stared ashen-faced at the ground, willing himself not to believe he was in his state, not today, not now. This wasn't happening. It was just a dream, a long nightmare he couldn't awaken from.

But it wasn't a dream. Just like the past centuries had not been a dream. He had lived through eons of heartbreak; he had lost what he once had. But he was still a proud nation. He had much left and had no reason to crawl away and die. He had his people to protect.

"You disgust me." It wasn't Japan talking; it wasn't the little nation he had raised, wasn't one of his beloved family that just dealt him a sharp blow with the sheath of his katana. The slap against the side of his face was almost numbing.

Everyone loved to pick on the old.

England had been one of the ones who hit first and drew blood. Those from the West were never good news. They brought with them strange words and strange things; they were greedy and stole things from him. They knocked him about until he was dizzy and disoriented and his people with him. They were the ones to contend with.

Not his family. Not his beloved family.

"If you'd just agreed to the Demands, this wouldn't have happened." When did Japan's tongue get so sharp? They cut into him like a steel trap. There was so much contempt; he never raised his children like that. "Are you listening to me?" There was another blow, much more forceful than the previous, and China was knocked sideways onto the ground, struggling to remain sitting.

"You were weak," Japan continued, his eyes narrowing. "You were weak, and you think I would just sit by and watch? I'm only an island, aniki, and in times like these, land is money."

The tears came of their own accord, clear drops against his muddy face. "We're family," China whispered, pushing himself up again. "But even if we're family, you can't just take what's not yours. Manchuria was always mine, I had to…"

"_Shut up_!" The sheath swung at him again and China accepted the blow, thrown backward quite a bit with Japan's force. "You lost it fair and square! You are _weak_, and you had to run to the others to get them to save you. Ha! You needed saving against poor, little me!" Sarcasm was deadly at Japan's lips. China closed his eyes and willed the tears to stop. "Even a bully knows when to stop when the big people tell him to. But now not even your stupid League of Nations can stop me now."

China opened his eyes again, wondering himself delusional when for a moment, he saw the image of an old, smiling Japan looking down at him. With a blink, this illusion was wiped away and a furious nation stood before him, ice in his eyes and venom in his mouth. The scar from Japan's first fight throbbed painfully on his back.

"Japan…" Stop. Stop. This was not what he wanted. He wanted them all to get along again. Couldn't they get along anymore? Were they all destined to be fragmented, Taiwan at Japan's house, Korea on his own, Hong Kong with England? "You don't have to do this…"

"I don't? No, I do. You won't understand if I didn't. You never understood. You were always blinded by your stupid delusions." Japan took a step forward, his shadow casting over China's shivering form. "You always thought we would be one big, happy family. But you would be the head. I'm only saying no. You can't control me. I won't let you."

China closed his eyes again and he saw his people suffering. The dead shot into a pit, the screams of women, the smell of burning houses…it was overwhelming. And now to be cornered by Japan in his own home…he'd lost his control on everything.

"Remember…" China said suddenly, a small smile on his face. He was foolish to be remembering, but it came back suddenly. Japan stopped, startled. "Remember when we were young and I took you out to see the full moon? You really liked it…"

"You crazy old man," Japan whispered, pulling the katana out of the sheath slowly so the sound of blade could be heard in the room. "You crazy, stupid, old man."

--

Italy sat outside, staring up at the clouds, where his head also was. It was fun playing with Germany; he made him do all sorts of training that Il Duce always wanted them to do. Although it was really hard, he always felt like he was doing something, something other than fighting. It seemed they liked to fight all the time. He didn't like fighting too much.

Romano didn't like Germany.

Italy suspected it was because he was spending so much with Germany and not as much time with his brother.

Italy suspected it was because Germany approached him, seeing him as an able-bodied nation, instead of Romano.

Italy suspected Romano was jealous that Italy had a friend.

No matter what the reason, Romano didn't like Germany.

Today, Russia had come over. The big-boned nation had complained of the western European powers plotting against him. He had wished to offer a sign of peace, that no matter what happened, they would remain friendly. Germany's boss had agreed; after all, no one wanted to deal with an upset Russia. And with Russia pacified, Germany could do as he pleased.

Italy stared through the front window and saw Germany and Russia's bosses in tight discussion, while the nations themselves were watching each other. There was a careful apprehension that filled Germany's face, while Russia looked as carefree and dangerous as usual. Italy shivered as Russia's violet eyes shifted and fell to rest on him. The northern nation waved friendly and Italy scampered away from the window.

Did this mean Germany and Russia were friends?

What about him?

Italy wanted to cry.

--

They were a gang of unruly nations. A trio of rebellious, violent, stubborn little nations. Japan, clear-eyed and lightly smiling, signed the Tripartite Pact as Italy dozed off under the kotatsu.

"I've signed," the soft-spoken nation explained, as both his allies were lying contently on the floor.

"Eh. Leave it."

Japan smiled onward. "Then please have an orange and relax."

There was a satisfied sigh that seemed to come from all three of them when suddenly Italy shot up, knocking a cat that had been dozing on his chest off and mewling irritatedly. "Japan!" he said loudly. "I saw some pretty trees when we were coming in! Can we go see them together right now? I paint, you know, so I want to get a good look at them so I can paint them later!"

"You paint?" Japan regarded his new ally with amusement. "Alright. We can go look at the _sakura_ together. Would Germany-san like to come too?"

Italy was already on his way next to Japan and was pulling the nation to his feet as Germany waved his hand dismissively, eyes still closed. "I'll stay here," the blonde nation said gruffly. "Just agree to his every whim. Italy's easily satisfied."

"See you later, Germany~!" Giggling, Italy pulled Japan through his own house into the courtyard, where a grove of _sakura_ trees stood, the pink blossoms brightly blooming in the breeze. "So pretty!" Italy leapt from Japan's side into the midst of the trees, twirling around and reaching to brush the petals with his hands. Squealing when some came off in his hands, Italy turned to find Japan again. "Ve, Japan, come over here!"

Italy was very much like a young child, Japan thought to himself, before berating himself for the thought. China once thought he was a child too. Italy looked so carefree that the thought came regardless, although Japan wondered if he had thought too fast; as he came closer, Italy's smile seemed a bit forced, a bit too eager.

"So you're friends with us now!" Italy chirped, the fake smile still on his face. "Me and Germany! How do you like it?"

"It is promising," Japan agreed, nodding slightly and trying to decipher Italy's face. "To have allies in your sphere is a good thing; to have influence with friends in higher places."

"How about Germany? Do you like him?"

"Germany-san seems to be a very serious individual."

"So? Do you like him?"

Japan cocked his head, his face blank. What was Italy trying to make him say? "Yes," he said finally, choosing his words carefully, "and as much as I like you, Italy-san."

"Good." Italy reached over and gripped his hands. It must be a European thing, Japan reasoned, feeling awkward at the contact. Deal with it, it was to be expected with these nations. "Good. Because Germany and me are best friends! I mean, yes, Germany and Russia are friends too, I guess, but me and Germany are _best_ friends." Italy stared deep into Japan's eyes.

_Do not touch what is mine_.

It was a startlingly clear message and Japan was slightly taken aback. There was an intensity that China lacked, the force that his old brother had not taken with him. Italy looked away, happy to dance with the fluttering petals again, but Japan stood where he was, watching his new ally in the _sakura_.

A smile played on Japan's mouth. He may have had his doubts, but he was sure he was going to like his new friends now.

--

Poland grinned to himself as he settled the porcelain pony on his mantle place. Now. There, it looked perfect! Oh so darling! It totally matched with the pink walls!

"Oh, my, darling," Poland cooed, reaching out to stroke the pony with a finger. "Now you are _the_ definition of, like, cute! Cutie patootie!"

There was a strange sound of what sounded like horse hooves. Poland, although he was a rather aimless sort, knew he was no longer imagining it. The heart burn he felt he could no longer blame due to breakfast. Smiling tensely, Poland focused on the porcelain horse until the hoof beats could no longer be ignored.

Crossing the room in silence, Poland glanced outside. From the west came an armored brigade, led by a lone blonde man. Poland clucked his tongue before crossing the room again to the other side and peering out the window to see another brigade from the east, led by his old foe, the old wintery white haired nation.

"Liet?" Poland called out tentatively. Good. There was no answer. He had not wanted his good friend to watch him at the time like this.

"Oh lordy," Poland murmured, keeping his eyes trained on the advancing armies. There was a dramatic crackle in the clouds and Poland swore he saw a flash of lightning in Germany's direction. "I'm in, like, _big_ trouble."

--

…_so rally up the demons of your soul._

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To be continued

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Note: I'm starting to REALLY like this fanfic. I don't know why. I'm just getting much too deep in it, to the point where I'm refusing meals just to write it. That's an exaggeration, but I've been neglecting my others fics, which I should really be tending to with the small times I find to write. But I honestly like this one…intense Japan and jealous Italy are my new OOCs. Because let's face it, Japan was pretty intense and the strips portray him as rather uke-like. Japan can kick some pretty serious ass. And Italy is the jealous type. He's Italian, for crying out loud.

Please review. I'm getting exciting for a fic that not many are reading…I also hope the random history references are received. I do write with a purpose…often.


	4. Viva la Gloria

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track 4 - Viva la Gloria - Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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Four – Viva la Gloria!

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_Hey Gloria, are you standing close to the edge?_

--

Since war had broken out, Germany was getting used to strange things happening. These things went hand and hand with wars. Enemies appearing in the cracks, friends coming out of hiding. It was completely normal. After all, the Fuhrer was a strange sort in himself, so Germany considered these sort of events as commonplace.

He had not really been expecting Italy to constantly appear though.

"What are you doing here?" Germany asked monotonously as Italy climbed through a window. That was what doors were for; he knew for a fact that his was unlocked. Sure, it was bad security, but who in Europe would really dare to visit him out of the blue? And Italy…although they had signed a pact with Japan, it had not really tied them together _that_ much. But Italy was here all the time.

"Can't I visit one of my friends?" Italy sidled up to Germany and clung onto his arm. "We _are_ friends, aren't we?"

If by friends, Italy meant Germany tolerate all the antics the peninsula nation got up to, then of course they were. The Fuhrer did not mind Italy's presence much and Italy was not disturbing anything, so it really was just another everyday happening. Germany ignored him as he walked to his office, Italy hanging off him the whole way.

"So what are you planning?" Italy asked, as if they were fellow war generals.

"I've invaded Denmark and Norway as we speak."

"Ooh!" Italy nuzzled his arm, which was quite distracting when one was trying to walk straight.

"I'm planning on taking France."

Italy's eyes widened, big pools of honey brown. "France-nii-chan? You're not serious?"

"I am." Germany glanced down, getting the feeling he was being honestly admired. He made the mistake of meeting eyes with the smaller nation and was taken aback by the simplicity in Italy's eyes. They spoke of a happy time, with lots of sunshine and pasta, and summers at the beach.

"Germany?" Germany blinked. He must have been staring incessantly. Italy was looking at him with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Germany walked into his room, shaking Italy off his arm to walk to his desk. The Italian danced around the room, touching everything and introducing himself to inanimate objects like a potted plant. There was a grace of the younger twin that was attractive; the way Italy floated around spoke no ill-will and his smile was childish but charmingly innocent.

Germany caught himself staring again.

He turned his attention back to his work.

"Hey Germany!" Hands slammed on the desk and Germany jumped as Italy shouted at him. Looking up, he was startled as Italy stared at him with a fierce intensity. "I've been thinking about this for a long time! I want us to be allies!"

Germany blinked, his pen hovering over his papers. "Allies…?"

"Yeah! I mean, my boss is still unsure of the idea, but I really, really, really like you and I think we should be more than friends!" More than friends? "You've helped me out a lot and I think it's about time I help you out! Okay? Let's start a war!"

Germany was still thinking about what Italy meant when he said 'more than friends' and almost didn't catch the latter part. "Wait," he sputtered, trying to gain the upper hand as Italy danced about. "I…I don't know about this…"

"Come on, Germany! We've always been close, haven't we?"

_Had_ they? Germany had a feeling Italy was putting words in his mouth. "Hold on, Italy," he said firmly. "Let's think these things through first. I'm getting on bad terms on many nations lately. I don't know if you're ready to handle that sort of…"

"I am! For you, I'm ready for anything!" With an epic slide, Italy heaved himself on the table and slid across it so he was sitting facing Germany, now at a much closer proximity. The papers were cast in the air like thick sheets of snow.

The white rainfall was confusing him. Germany blinked and saw a little girl in an apron that looked strangely like Italy. He blinked again and Italy's eager face was in front of him again.

"I don't care what Il Duce says," Italy murmured, leaning closer. "I'll make him listen. I want to be your partner, Germany. I want to be able to count on you and you to be able to count on me. You've been so nice to me for so long…it's only fair. Don't you think?"

Germany pushed Italy back on the desk so they were a breathable distance apart again. Clearing his throat, he closed his eyes to think. It was true, he did not have the approval of many nations. Austria and Hungary had joined him, but he had made them; Italy would be his first uninfluenced 'friend'. The Fuhrer had expressed interest in making Italy an ally. They shared the same ideas in promoting their people.

But Italy had bailed on them in the Great War. Italy had never proved himself to be a helpful ally.

Germany opened his eyes again and Italy was staring at him again, the eager look replaced by fearful anxiety. There was something about those honey eyes that swallowed him again. Italy was dangerous, in more ways than one.

"I'll think about it. For now, kindly remove yourself from my desk so I may get to work."

--

Poland had been taken. Where would Germany strike next? It seemed that nation's sights were set on the world; the chatty blonde nation was now homebound and silent. France was starting to get jittery and England felt the tension in the air; something was coming his way.

And if he knew it was here, he would definitely have turned around and avoided his room.

"Hey gramps!" England almost yelped and jumped out of his skin when he heard America's voice. Looking up, the young nation had extracted himself from England's seat and was now making his way across the room to him. There was a careless smile on his face and the blue eyes portrayed a sky clear of clouds. "Long time no see! You've gotten older, I gotta say."

"Well, isn't it the fountain of youth," England shot back sarcastically, trying to calm his racing heart as he flattened himself against the door. No, this wasn't what he was supposed to be doing; he was supposed to be opening the door and kicking this unwelcome visitor out. Now he was just blocking his way out. What was wrong with him?

"Don't be snide. I'm here to help you." America flourished a hand. "Heroes always hear distress signals, you know. I heard something was wrong in this part of the world, and I came to see you first. What's the story, morning glory? A colony getting too big for its boots?"

"Nothing of the sort," England retorted, crossing his arms. "I haven't had any troublesome colonies after _you_."

"Charmed to be the only one in your heart, love. But that's beside the point. Who's the troublemaker now?"

England glared at him. "If you _must_ know, the problem today is Germany. He's invading recklessly and he's got a crazy new boss. What are you going to do, America? Go and knock him about a few? Be the hero?"

"Hero, no doubt. But I haven't got a bone to pick with Germany. I'm not going to pick fights like that. That would be stupid." America had reached England and was watching him curiously. England stared up right back, defiant.

"Don't get involved," England hissed. "If you're smart, you will _not_ come here and be a little hero."

America held his hands up. "Hey, I'm free to do as I choose! You don't control me anymore. I'm here to do you a favor."

"And what would that be, my darling little brother?"

"Now that's the tone I want to hear!" America tossed his head up, as if he were about to make a groundbreaking announcement. "I'd like to start a cash-and-carry policy with you, my dear older brother. With just a little bit of cash money, I'll let you have your goods without shipping and handling. Good, right? I'll let you bask in my awesomeness now."

England snorted, but was silently surprised. America had never wanted to help him before, especially when he wouldn't be showcased as his dream job with a dash of heroics. He was genuinely touched, but the Queen wouldn't catch him like this. "What's your hidden agenda?"

America looked hurt, a puppy look on his face. "That stings, Iggy! Can't I do something for you without expecting anything in return?"

"No."

America threw his shoulders back, crossing his arms to mimic England. "I _am_ a selfless being. All heroes are. Whatever shindigs you get up to, I _do_ want you to win, you know. If anyone can defeat you, it's me, and me alone."

"So you help me for the glory. Of course." England smiled smugly up at America, who was caught off guard. Effortlessly whisking around the taller nation, England made his way deeper into the room. "I guess I can admit now that I never really kept you around for your company."

"That's cruel, England! All I was saying is that I'm the only one that can get your panties in a knot!"

"Blatantly ignoring that sexual remark, I thank you for your help, but I must politely decline. Your doing so would increase your chances of getting into the war. And the next thing I need is to be fighting next to you. Heavens knows how that's going to go down." England threw his hands up and was about to bring them down when America shot out and grabbed a wrist.

"I don't think you understand England. I'm doing it no matter what you say." Keeping a grip on the apprehensive island nation, America took a step forward. "I really am concerned for you, you know. I fought the last war for you." Reaching out, America brushed the bangs from England's forehead and bent down to kiss him on the brow. "Cheerio, darling. I'll see you in the long run." With a signature wink and a smile, America left of his own accord, closing the door behind him with the perfect exit.

England stared at the door, stock-still, with the knowledge that America had _again_ gone against his wishes and did a stupid thing _and_ his ex-colony had kissed him in a way he had only imagined.

--

_Tell me the story of your life!_

--

To be continued

--

Note: Italy had not joined in Germany's fight until the Fall of France. I couldn't resist inserting Gertalia, though. Oh, me. USUK was a given; let's not discuss the historical canon. I sort of love the next chapter. France gets his ass handed to him. Yes? Review, please.


	5. Before the Lobotomy

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track Five – Before the Lobotomy – Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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Five – Before the Lobotomy

--

_Dreaming, I was only dreaming…_

--

It was quiet. Too quiet. He was jumping at every sound, the pure static frizzling his nerves. To calm himself, he had seated himself at the parlor table, drinking red wine straight from the bottle.

Something was coming. It wasn't the alcohol talking anymore.

France stared listlessly at the tablecloth as the front door came crashing down. There was sound of gunfire and peppering of shots, war cries and excited cheering. It wasn't until Germany appeared in the doorway did he finally cry out, feeling a hot heat sear his very being.

"France," Germany addressed politely. He was holding a machine gun and surveying the room carefully. There was an explosion somewhere in the house.

France stared at the wine bottle, past the green glass to the red liquid still sloshing cheerfully in its depths. There was a pop and the glass exploded, spraying the white tablecloth and France in red liquid. The invaded nation cried out again, broken glass on his lap and red seeping into his clothes.

It hadn't been Germany who had shot. On the contrary, the blonde nation was watching his all with a calculating expression. Italy had appeared, standing next to his ally with a gun in his outstretched arm.

"I shot it!" Italy cried happily, waving the still smoking gun around and turning to Germany. "All that targeting practice worked!"

"Good." Germany rested a hand on Italy's head and rubbed gently, like one might to a dog. It seemed enough, as the nation purred happily under these ministrations. Germany turned back to France, who was staring at them dumbfoundedly.

"You should know why we're here, France," the blonde said coldly.

"We gave you what you wanted," France said, rather quickly. "You invaded Poland's vital regions and we didn't stop you! Why are you doing this?"

"Poland," Italy spat, looking disgusted. "He was screaming and causing such a fuss even after Germany was done with him. No pride at all, vee~! Wasn't even worth your time…"

"It's done," Germany reminded, and Italy sulked, clinging at Germany's arm.

"And how did you get so close?" France asked, feeling the need to know how he went down and at whose hands.

Italy smiled satisfactedly. "Il Duce said if Germany could invade your vital regions, he'd let me be allies with him. So now that he did, I'm happy. Don't take it personally, nii-chan. We'll always have 1796." (1)

France smiled back sarcastically. Leave it to little Italy to turn out to be such a delinquent. "How's your brother, Italy?"

"Romano? He's fine. He's probably picking around one of your rooms right now." Italy smiled happily up at Germany. "He's never liked Germany too much so he leaves me to deal with him."

"It can get ugly," Germany warned, cocking his gun and pointing it at France. "Surrender now and you won't get hurt. Much."

France threw the broken glass pieces to the floor. "I can't just do that," he said, shrugging. "I have my pride to withhold."

"Italy." At the mention of his name, Italy perked up, looking excited. "Go to your brother. I don't want you to see this."

"What?! I can handle it! I promise!"

"You won't be able to."

"No! Let me stay! We're allies! I won't go!"

Germany rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. But close your eyes when you can't watch anymore."

--

England was finding it harder and harder to take deep breaths. The Prime Minister had handed him a file, which he had read in the privacy of his office.

He had had fights with France before, and had beaten the country before, but he'd never seen France in a state after a thrashing at another country's hands.

England felt utterly alone.

With France gone, he was the only one left in the European hemisphere. China, which might have been a potential ally, was too far to matter; Russia was sitting elsewhere watching from the balcony; and America…no, he wouldn't involve America. He wouldn't get that boy in the war even if he was near death. He was England, royal England, and England didn't grovel.

The bombings started almost the moment he set the pictures down to think. A numbing prick of pain started in his chest and England scrambled to the door. London. He had to think of London.

He almost ran into the Queen, who had been rushing down the hall in his direction. "England," she greeted urgently, bowing slightly. "What is happening?"

"The Air Force," England breathed, rushing past her. "I've got to get the Royal Air Force up."

"It's not…oh dear…what shall we do?"

"Persevere. We can survive this." England narrowed his eyes as he rushed down the hall. _There's no way I'm going down like that bastard. Not in a million years._

--

Romano grumbled as he watched his brother fret in his room. He had been giving strict orders (he didn't want to follow orders from that bastard, but Il Duce said they were working together now so he had to) by Germany not to let Italy loose now they were trying to invade England's vital regions. Italy had been a mess after France.

Romano never liked Germany, and especially it didn't help when he came to see his brother and found him sobbing outside France's house next to a bush where the smell of vomit lingered in the air. Italy's eyes were bloodshot and he was choking out words.

"What did he do to you?" Romano shouted.

"France…" Italy moaned. "Germany…Germany _really_ hurt France."

"Well, duh," Romano said exasperatedly, trying to help his brother to his feet. "It's what we came here to do."

Italy was becoming incomprehensible and Romano had to slap his brother a bit to get coherent words out. "Blood…France-nii-chan…"

"Where are they?" Romano asked.

Italy coughed and pointed toward the front walk, where there was a trail of blood down to the street. "Germany…Germany is taking France to the railroad car…let me go, I can hardly breathe…"

Leaving his brother in a pile at the back door, Romano entered the house, where some of Germany's men were lingering around. Glaring at them, he wandered a bit before stumbling upon the parlor, where he stopped.

There was blood everywhere, spattered all over the walls and tablecloth, which was already a sickening ruby red. There was broken glass and bullet holes and broken furniture. There was the fading scent of alcohol but the overpowering stench of fear and blood. Romano's mind reeled; he stumbled back.

His feet found Italy, still crying in the back. "Did you see?" Romano demanded loudly. "How much did you see?"

"All of it," Italy cried, wailing loud enough to fill the area with his cries. "All of it! I didn't close my eyes for a second!"

"What a sick bastard," Romano muttered, biting his lip to stop from feeling sick. He thought of the state France must have been in, and then dragged down the path to the trains…he ignored the nauseous feeling he felt in his stomach. Italy was now clinging onto him and he had to be strong for his brother.

--

Japan had to commend his western friends. He had not been aware of the situation, but once Germany sent him word that France had been subdued, there was suddenly a wider range of possibilities in the east. China had been holed up in his ruin of a house and Japan moved further, collecting Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam into his house.

Flush with victory, Japan returned and found a telegram at his house delivered with a United States post all over the envelope. At the moment, America was still separated by the whole fight by a sea and Japan felt a sting of irritation that such a child was worming his way into the process. He didn't need to worry about stepping on little fingers at this point.

"Dear Japan STOP. I know you have nothing to do with the situation in the west after France was defeated and now England won't talk to me, but I'll have you know a hero won't stand by these actions STOP. France may be down but that is no reason to invade his colonies STOP. Please withdraw immediately STOP. We have stopped your assets and will not send you oil until you do STOP. This can be resolved easily by---

Japan had crumpled the badly hidden threat and lobbed the paper outside, not watching it long enough to know where it blew off to. If this was a way of western retaliation, it was a bad form of it. Every nation he dealt with was disappointing him lately. He was not going to withdraw now and he certainly was not going to listen to America of all nations. But now his people were going to suffer by some stubborn trick a child was pulling.

"I hope you're ready, America-san," Japan murmured softly, taking the envelope and tossing it on the stove, watching it get burnt to ashes. "I won't just slap you on the hand for something like this."

--

_Laughter, there is no more laughter; songs of yesterday now live in the underground._

--

To be continued

--

(1) Napoleon. Need I say more?

France was invaded and Hitler forced his boss to sign the armistice in the same railcar the Germans signed the 1918 armistice. Britain was also bombed but he held out with his spirit and Air Force. Also, yes I implied sexual invasion of vital regions. Germany does that. And America was very against Japan invading China, and along with the UN, sent a warning. So next, of course, is Pearl Harbor.

Note: Jealous Italy is my life. I hope it has become your favorite OCC as it has become mine. I'm really excited about how this fic is going…so please keep reading and enjoying. Review, please, because I squeal with joy when I see reviews in my inbox.


	6. Christian's Inferno

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track Six – Christian's Inferno – Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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Six – Christian's Inferno

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_There's fire in my blood and it's pouring out like a flood._

--

Italy was perched on the wall, watching the trudging mob making their way to the trains. Germany had assigned him the duty of making sure the undesirables made their way to their relocations, as Italy had proved himself most squeamish at dealing with direct combat. Watching carefully, his golden eyes scanned over the crowd, not meeting eyes with any man, woman, or child. Some of them had been labeled, some of them just had the misfortune of being labeled. Italy saw some of his people, afraid and hesitant.

Some of these were going to be sent to be killed.

Some were going to work, work their fingers and lives away.

Italy was not a hardhearted nation. He had only wanted him and his brother to be happy. The war seemed to be the way to go at it. Although he knew he shouldn't, he felt a bit sad to watch these gloomy citizens walk to their doom. They had not deserved it; just some international bickering between countries had dragged them into this new, unpleasant life.

Italy wanted to jump off the wall, shrug off his gun, and offer to cook everyone some pasta and gelato to cheer up. He wanted to see them all off home and walk through his streets happy like he used to.

But he was in no position to do so, so on the wall he stayed.

Tugging at his collar, Italy pulled on a chain around his neck and extracted a steel cross from around his neck. It gleamed in the sunlight and Italy stared at it, fingering the edges. It caught the attention of a little girl, who was about to reach up and speak to him when her mother ushered her away quickly. He was only another guard, watching over them, in no way was he one of the nations involved in their displacement.

Italy brought the cross to his mouth and kissed it. Germany was not Holy Roman Empire, he knew now, but it didn't matter anymore; he had always been quick to fall in love, and he had fallen in love again. He would never tell, because no one wanted to hear about it, and he was not allowed to feel such ways during wartime. _Germany, I'll do anything for you_.

--

Germany stared at the paper. It was only a piece of paper. He could easily rip it apart, burn it to pieces, crumple it and throw it away. It was only a piece of paper, but it meant something bigger than just wood pulp.

Now the Fuhrer wanted him to treat it as such; a piece of paper.

"Russia…no, the USSR…is in no position to refuse us," the Fuhrer had explained earlier that day. "They can't be dealing with invasions. They have such a horrible, unorganized system. You only have to kick in the door and the whole rotten structure will come crashing down."

"What would we do with Russia?" Germany asked quietly, thinking of the vast space of winter.

"_Lebensraum_," the Fuhrer said proudly. "That vast space of nothingness and unwanted people could be cleared, just like a forest, and more of our people could live there. Nothing worthwhile is happening in the Soviet Union today. Why let it go to waste?"

This was nothing new; nations fought each other all the time for land. Germany looked down, trying to ignore the ill feeling. "What do you propose we do, Fuhrer?"

--

Russia was not pleased. Not at all.

"Germany, I'm not pleased," Russia said sadly. As of late, he was being called Soviet Union, but he was still the big boned winter-withstanding nation he always was. Standing at the gates of Moscow, Russia had his army behind him, surprised once at the invasion, not to be surprised again.

Germany had not been expecting Russia to be able to protect himself like this. The Red Army had never been such a stumbling block before.

"We had an agreement, da?" Russia shook his head, mock anguish. "We would not attack each other, yes? And now this? I'm afraid I cannot consider you my friend anymore."

Germany gripped his gun and the rest of his troops stood firm. "My boss told me to come," he defended. "And we will not stand down."

Russia shook his head again. "Suit yourself, Germany. I say you should run away before it gets bad. I'm afraid my men will not be the ones to destroy your little army. I suggest we become one now so I can help you, da?"

"Never, Russia."

Russia shrugged. "Then that's how it'll be then, Germany. I'm sorry we couldn't be friends anymore."

--

It was cool, then cold, than frigid. Germany kept to himself, huddled around in their camp while some of the men went to bury the dead.

Russia had warned him, had come in the middle of the night during his watch shift in peace. "Germany," the big boned nation had said, with a cheery smile on his face. "Don't shoot; I'm not here to hurt you. I just came to say that Old Man Winter is coming soon and your men don't seem equipped for his visit."

Germany glanced back at his troops, certain for a quick victory that they had neglected in bringing more provisions. "We won't need them," he insisted.

Russia shrugged. "I warned you," he said simply, before leaving again the way he came.

Now it was cold and his men were dying. Russia was truly a land of nothing but cold. Germany heard a man telling the others about his wife back at home, a lovely sort of woman that kept the children safe and the meals warm. The fire that barely crackled animated the man's voice, carrying the story through the air. Although he was just a nation, Germany found himself wondering what it would be like to have that sort of companionship.

Italy came to mind, although not much of a housewife figure; the idiot cooked pasta in strange places and carried around vats of the food around as if it was vital to his very being. There was always warmth involved in anything Italy did, from the sunny streets of his house to the fever of his smile. Yes, Italy was just another ally, but he had his merits, despite his numerous flaws and mistakes.

"What about you, _Herr Deutschland_? Do you have someone back at home?"

Germany looked up and saw the man who had been talking. He was staring at him eagerly. The nation wrapped the blanket around him and thought of Italy again.

"Yes," he said finally, closing his eyes. He thought of Italy and his incompetence and of a little girl that swept the walk and turned to smile at him. "I'd almost forgotten."

--

Romano had thought it was all settled with Germany and his stupid brother, but he had temporarily forgotten about the other part of that awful alliance they had made.

"Romano!" Prussia had spiraled out of nowhere to drape himself on Romano's shoulders, like a bothersome cape. He nuzzled the twin's neck and sulked when Romano knocked him off with a wave of his hand.

"I don't want to deal with you, Prussia," Romano said curtly, walking past the albino to his house.

"Don't be like that," Prussia urged, falling into step with the disgruntled brunette. He touched the steel cross at his collar and glanced at Romano. "We're connected by the Pact of Steel, remember?"

"It wasn't my idea," Romano scoffed, tugging at the chain around his neck as if it was choking him. "You know as well as I do that if our stupid little brothers didn't meet, this probably wouldn't have happened."

"Hmm. Little brothers are annoying," Prussia agreed thoughtfully. "But it's not so bad working with you. We're really causing a ruckus, aren't we?"

"_Me ne frego,_" Romano shot back, glaring as the red-eyed nation laughed. "It's about time they acknowledged us," he murmured, more to himself and referring to him and his brother. Prussia grinned anyway.

"That's more like it!" Slapping the twin on the back, Prussia cocked his head to the north. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to check in on my little brother. He's gotten much too ambitious, playing with Russia. He's letting it get to his head. Quit while you're ahead, you know? _Bis später, _sweets!" With a careless wave, Prussia cavorted away, humming all the while with a curious gleam in his eye.

"Bastard," Romano grumbled under his breath as he pushed the door to his house open. Instantly, there was a flood of warmth and the smell of biscotti wafted through the foyer. Sniffing, Romano shrugged off his jacket and wandered into the kitchen, where Italy was fiddling around with the oven.

"What are you doing?" Romano demanded.

Italy jumped. The steel cross around his neck glimmered as he turned and he quickly stuffed it under his shirt again, knowing his brother hated seeing it. "Um! I was just baking some biscotti!"

"I know. I smelled it." Romano crossed his arms and studied his brother from the doorway. "You know the boss doesn't want you to be wasting time baking during the war. He won't be happy to catch you doing this."

"I know, I know…but you can't be fighting all the time, right?" Italy giggled nervously. "And I don't bake very often anymore, so it's only once…and I was hungry…"

Romano cocked his head. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing!"

"You don't bake for no good reason. There's always company coming over or there's something on your mind. Your stupid beloved _Deutschland_'s boss isn't coming over today, so it's something else. What is it?"

Italy flushed and played with the cuff of the oven mitt. "Well…" he said hesitantly, biting his lip, "I was…I was watching everyone get into the trains and then as I was going home, I just felt…I don't know…I was just really cold. I felt like I was freezing, so I decided to come home and bake, because it makes me warmer." Unconsciously, Italy had started hugging himself.

"It's winter in Russia's house," Romano said finally, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of his brother.

"Germany's really cold," Italy whispered, closing his eyes and hugging himself tighter. "I can feel it and I'm not happy. Romano, we were supposed to be happy. Why am I not happy then?"

"You idiot," Romano sighed, wrapping his arms around his brother. "Don't talk like that. The boss will get mad at you."

"I don't want to fight," Italy confessed quietly. "I never wanted to fight. I was upset, yes, but I didn't want to get everyone mad and I didn't want to hurt anyone. But the boss said we had to, so I did."

"It's too late to back out," Romano scolded. "We let Greece kick our butts and you know how pitiful it is to be beaten by someone who sleeps all the time. Let's just finish this. Chin up, little brother. It will be over soon."

Italy sighed, a hint of a sob in his voice as he giggled again. "I'm not cold anymore, Romano. I feel like I'm on fire." Romano carefully extracted himself from his brother, leaning against kitchen counter watching as Italy wiped his eyes. "Spain came by earlier," Italy said suddenly.

Romano's stomach flopped. "What did he want?"

"He came by to check on us. He wanted to know if we needed any help. He asked about you." Italy smiled lightly. "You should go visit him, Romano. He talked mostly about you."

"I can't do that," Romano insisted, looking up at the ceiling. "The others will think I'm involving Spain and I'm not letting him get involved." He stared at the cracks for a second before turning back to Italy. "Is the biscotti done yet?"

--

_I am the atom bomb, I am your chosen one_!

--

To be continued

--

Note: Just kidding. I know I promised the Pearl Harbor chapter, but it looks like it was the NEXT chapter and you'll just have to deal with this filler. Please don't think too poorly of me. I used 'Me no frego'. Call me heartless, but I laughed when I first read about Il Duce saying that. Mussolini had some humor – he says another funny quote in the Pearl Harbor chapter. I swear. History can be fun. Please review.


	7. Last Night on Earth

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track Seven – Last Night on Earth – Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

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Seven – Last Night on Earth

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_If I lose everything in the fire, I'm sending all my love to you._

--

Japan could have passed as asleep to anyone passing him in the hallway of the aircraft carrier. He was huddled in a corner of the corridor, dressed in aviator gear and curled in a small ball. Resting his head against his knees, he could easily have been asleep. But he wasn't; he was completely alert and had heard when a couple of his men walked by, murmuring about how sometimes even nations needed their sleep.

Today, he would be attacking America. America, the little boy, the youngest of the developed nations. Granted, America was no longer a baby, but compared to the current players of the game called war, he was an infant. Japan felt his stomach turn uneasily. But bad children had to be taught a lesson. America knew better than to get involved in issues not concerning him.

But he hadn't attacked the western nations before. Presently, he was more interested in maintaining control on his eastern nations and he hadn't ventured to attack anyone outside his hemisphere. Was it smart to deliver a message in this way? The western nations had no reason to get in his way, and this would give them adequate reason to start troubling him.

But America was a child. He couldn't do too much damage.

"We will attack after our declaration of war has been delivered," Yamamoto said confidently. "Then, we will have given them enough time to be warned and yet still have the element of surprise."

Japan had not had the heart to blatantly spell out his intentions. America would not understand and he felt strange cutting off ties in this fashion. "Help me," he whispered to no one in particular; it was a moment of vulnerability – after all, he was only a little island nation. But no, he was attacking an island too, so it evened out. "Hawaii Operation," Japan sighed, stretching the kinks out of his neck. "It's time to go."

--

America yawned, reaching out to silence the clock screaming in his ears. It was almost as bad as England, sometimes. But a hero had to be a morning person too, so America plastered a tired smile on his face as he chucked the clock against the wall, the arrows jolting so the five-fifty shifted slightly.

America yawned again as he pulled pants on. A nation had to be presentable to his people, at any hour of the day. Leaving his bomber jacket on a chair in his room, he wandered out and onto the lawn of the little house he was staying at.

Even early in the morning, it was turning out to be a beautiful day. "Good morning!" he shouted to no one, as there were few people outside at the early hour. Yes, it had been a good idea to finish off his beautiful nation of fifty states with Hawaii.

Truth be told, he hadn't been visiting Pearl Harbor for nothing; he had been checking on his battleships, which he had been lending out to ungrateful England lately in his lend-lease program. He would have thought old Britain would have been thankful at all the help he, America, was giving, but continuingly, that arrogant bushy brows was refusing to see him. America frowned to himself as he walked down the path to the battleships. Whenever he went to see England, the unfriendly nation had locked him out.

"I guess he couldn't take the awesomeness," America reasoned aloud. It was fine to speak to yourself; no one was listening and he was a nation; nations didn't have to worry about things like that. Did England think he was too young to know what was going on? There was a war thriving in that area, and although America and his people had deemed it smart to stay out of it, it didn't mean that he, a hero, would just leave England be. He'd help as best he could!

Maybe England was still hung up about the stupid Revolution that happened years ago. America made a face. England should really have gotten over it; what was lost was lost. But no, the old man had to keep bringing it up, acting awkward the last time they worked together in the Great War. America kicked a beer bottle in his path; he had wanted to get close to England again, but it seemed the only way to be close to that idiot was to be his colony. As if that was ever happening again.

"Lieutenant Tyler," America greeted as he reached Opana Point. The addressed man, still a novice officer, leapt to attention. "Anything happening?"

"There was an echo," the man admitted, although he quickly brightened. "But it was probably the B-17 bombers. The operators said it was coming from the same direction as scheduled, so there's nothing to worry about. Everything's clear."

"Great!" America flashed a bright smile. Walking past him, America reached the ports and stared at the ships, sitting idly. There were a few men up and about, patrolling and calling to each other. Why couldn't England be happy for his help? He thought it might make the island nation nicer toward him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Was England just against all forms of affection? Could he not see what a hero was trying to say? America scoffed; people told him he couldn't read the atmosphere – it was _England_ who couldn't read the atmosphere.

"America! America, sir!" America turned as radio operator ran up to him. "Excuse me…I'm sorry…were you in the middle of anything?"

"No! I'm fine! What's wrong?" America grinned, noticing the troubled look on the man's face.

"There was a radio in…a flier…but I couldn't make it out. It seemed like a warning…but I don't know…"

America studied the skies. They looked quite clear and he didn't sense any foreboding. Heroes could sense when bad things were about to happen. "Don't worry about it," America said absentmindedly, still staring up at the sky. "Lieutenant Tyler said something about B-17s, so they probably had a run in with them…"

"If you say so," the operator said, before scurrying off. America continued his scouting, smiling satisfactedly at the quiet; it was much too early for anything and he wasn't even sure why he was thinking so hard; England would just have to accept that a hero was helping him, and everything would turn out okay. Things always did.

--

Japan hummed to himself, the silence oddly unnerving. They still had the cover of morning, and he suspected the waning darkness would be enough for the attack to be successful. They had shot down a few planes, but they were so unsuspecting, he doubted America would be alarmed. The planes were destroyed before anyone in them could react, anyhow.

The formation was unbroken and Japan glanced at the planes next to him. There was nervous tension he could sense from the others; there would definitely be deaths among them, surprise attack or not. It was a strange feeling, knowing you couldn't possibly perish as you were a nation, and nations couldn't be killed like humans.

"I'll fly with you."

Yamamoto had been surprised. "_Nihon-sama_," he said respectfully. "With all due respect, you don't need to trouble yourself, you can stay here and we can report to you…"

"No." Japan stood firm, ignoring the surprised looks of all the aviators. "A nation has to be present at declarations of war. We're getting involved in this, and I must be there to show my face so America knows who he's dealing with."

No one was going to argue with him and Japan glanced down at the calm waters below them. They were closing in on Pearl Harbor and everything was still going to plan; no one had appeared to stop them and no one was aware.

"Operation Z commence!" The crackle of static buzzed into his ears and Japan flew lower. The port was completely unguarded, the ships still sitting around like blind ducks. It was strange to attack a sleeping enemy; it was disrespectful.

"But America-san," Japan murmured to himself, diving and ejecting a bomb, "you brought this upon yourself."

--

The explosion was earth-shattering.

America jumped as a nearby battleship exploded, adrenaline suddenly coursing through his body. There hadn't even been time to shout when there was another explosion nearby and as if something possessed him, America found himself sprinting toward a command center. Men were starting to awaken, but the bombs did not stop; the attacks continued, loud explosions and gunfire that peppered the idle ships.

"Air raid Pearl Harbor. This is not a drill." America had grabbed the radio from the commander, who had been trying to find sense in this sudden attack. Running again, America grabbed a nearby jacket; it wasn't his bomber jacket, but it would have to do for now. Who could possibly be attacking them now? Surely the Germans would not have come for something like this.

America rushed out with the rest of the personal, rushing to man ships and defend the fort. The explosions continued, exploding around them. There was already fire in the bay, flaming debris and bodies frantically swimming to shore. The USS Nevada was already cranking up, poised for attack. America didn't bother looking which ship he leapt on; he had to fight back with his people and discover who was doing this.

"The Japs are coming!" America turned slightly, getting ready to man the gunners on the ship. It wasn't Japan, was it? He had done nothing to provoke the Asian nation; freezing assets and embargoing oil didn't mean a full-out attack? Shooting out a few rounds, America scanned the skies, the planes flying overhead rushing past.

He was a nation, and nations were interconnected. America spotted the plane, and Japan inside it. He shifted his target; it was useless to waste ammo on Japan – it wasn't like he could kill the nation, after all. Before he tore his eyes away, Japan had mouthed something at him, and even from the distance, he could almost hear the nation's soft voice.

_This is what you get for meddling, America_.

--

No one had expected Japan's attack to go as far as it did. America had not even been part of the equation, or even a variable to be concerned with. "In all cases it is more likely that the United States, before it is attacked by Axis soldiers, will be attacked by the not well known but very warlike inhabitants of the planet Mars, who will descend from the stratosphere in unimaginable flying fortresses," Il Duce had told the twins confidently.

It was inevitable. Even without all the casualties and destruction of valuable ships and materials, the sudden attack was enough for America to declare war on Japan. Japan accepted it gracefully, a tense smile on his face as America announced it. "That was uncalled for," America hissed, shaking in anger as he faced Japan. "You didn't have to kill all those people to make your point."

"You wouldn't have understood," Japan said meekly, looking down with a carefully hidden haughty expression.

"Well, I understand now. You're asking for me to interfere. I didn't want to, you know. But my people can't just stand by now. My boss thinks it's for the best." America's look hardened. "But don't think for a second that I'm through with you. You're not finished yet."

Japan smiled back challengingly. "I'll like to see what you can put me through, America-san."

--

America visited England as Germany and Italy declared war as well ("You can't just confront Japan and expect nothing to happen!" Italy insisted, insignificant but determined. "We're his friends and you're going to have to face us too!").

"America." England looked up as America shut the door behind. There was a hardened look that England was unused to. He hadn't seen it for at least a century. "I'm sorry for your loss."

America didn't respond and England put his papers down. "Regardless, thank you for coming. Russia has expressed interest in entering on our side, and with France incapacitated, your help would be appreciated." _Although this is not what I wanted. I don't want to see you fight with me anymore. I wish I could have stopped this, I wish…_

"I'm not in it for you," America said lowly. "I would never fight for you, England. You are perfectly capable to fight for yourself. You've shown that too many times for me to count. This is personal." England stared into the emotionless blue eyes and saw a hint of hurt behind the anger. "I joined to make Japan _hurt_."

"Wars can't be personal," England reminded, getting to his feet to cross the room to America. "When it's over, you can't erase scars that are personal. You know that as well as I do, America." England reached up to cup America's face, trying to soften the determined look on his former colony's face. "It's our people; it's the people's war. Nations are forever. We can't hate each other after the battles are over."

"If you know," America said quietly, "then you should know what to do."

England's eyes widened slightly. He cocked his head in question but America stared back blankly. There was a silence for thought when England leaned up and kissed America, pulling the taller nation in. America was unresponsive for a moment before wrapping his arms around England and bringing him up.

_It's disasters that bring people together_, England thought ruefully._ Always disasters. It can never be anything good._

--

_If I lose everything in the fire, did I ever make it through?_

--

To be continued

--

Note: Mussolini's quote is an actual quote. You can Google it if you doubt me. I hope I did Pearl Harbor some justice. I couldn't wait until the 7th to publish it. It's my early Pearl Harbor tribute. Review, please? I'm very humbled by all your reviews and I'm glad you all think so highly of my mediocre writing abilities. Should I ever make it big, I will thank all of you in shout outs.


	8. East Jesus Nowhere

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track Eight - East Jesus Nowhere - Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

--

Eight – East Jesus Nowhere

--

_And we will see how godless a nation we have become…_

--

It was a good thing his brother, his annoying _Bruder_, came to take his shift in his fight with Russia. His arrogant silvery haired counterpart had barged in, clad in not a heavy winter coat or fur boots but the very clothing he had left warmer homeland in, insisting he would be the one to make Russia crack. Germany would not have let his eastern family suffer, but Prussia had insisted and he figured his nose would fall off from frost bite if he didn't report back to the Fuhrer sooner.

His dark haired, sort-of-crazy boss had been happy to see him, not so happy to hear about the failing front. Germany was not so keen to be returning to the Russian side any time soon (and Prussia probably wasn't done playing awesome hero yet), so he tried to kill time elsewhere.

He had not known his homeland had changed so much. Walking through the streets, the chatter that he had known had died down to a faint murmur, careful housewives picking their gossip part by part in order not to possible incriminate their loved ones. The signs, pro-government, hung like medical charts: things you didn't want to delve deeper into but you couldn't help but stare.

There was the silent unease that made the Russian winters somewhat bearable.

Italy was primping himself up in the mirror when Germany came to visit.

"Germany!" the brunette nation spun around before Germany could even say a word of greeting. "I thought you were fighting with Russia! But you're back!"

"_Ja_, but Prussia wanted to fight too, so I came back." Germany stood straight and at attention, as he had been instructed to do so, and cleared his throat as Italy came closer. There was a soft flush on the nation's face, as refreshing as springtime, that made a warmth spread throughout his body to counteract the damage done by Old Man Winter. "I also came to check on my dogs." He did not know why exactly he had come to visit Italy.

"Hmm." The sound came deep from Italy's throat, almost like a content purr. "I'm glad to you came back to see me." Yes, by now, Germany had gotten it was a cultural thing for Italians to stand close to people (it was cultural shock the first time Italy came to talk to him and scooted straight into his personal space); but it didn't mean he felt less awkward when the sweet-smelling nation leaned into him – today, it smelled like tomato sauce.

"Where are you going, looking like that?" Germany asked, to make the awkwardness go away, and anyhow, he was curious to see what event Italy could possibly be attending looking so proper like that. Italy looked down at himself.

"I'm going to church! There's a service today and it's been a while since I've last confessed." Italy reached up and fingered Germany's collar absentmindedly, brushing against the cross on his lapel. "Not that I've done anything _bad_ per say…but nations always have sins to speak of."

Germany remembered back when he used to attend services. Nowadays, it seemed that parades and organized rallies for the Fuhrer dictated life, with rituals and stately procedures that went into any sort of worship. Even songs that he'd heard sung while younger now had a twinge of 'Fuhrer' in it. A man could not play God.

"Germany." Italy burst Germany out of his train of thought. The eager, wide-eyed look had returned. "Are you going to stay the night with me again?"

There had to be a way to say that again without the suggestiveness. Staying the night entailed tucking Italy in or sleeping in the same bed as the enthusiastic nation (not by choice; sometimes he would wake up and Italy would have inserted himself under the covers by some strange incident) and being glared at by Romano whenever he was passed in the hallways. But it was always warm and friendly in Italy's house; he wouldn't have minded, but he had other plans.

"I can't. The boss wants me to bunk with Austria tonight."

A flicker of resentment crossed Italy's features. "Austria?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "You spend a lot of time with Austria. Why can't you spend more time with me? You just came back and you'll be fighting with Russia again soon when Prussia comes back. Why can't you stay tonight?"

Germany stepped back from Italy, whose hands were now wandering close to his neck. It must be another cultural thing, to be so touchy. "I can't help it. After all, the Fuhrer does regard Austria highly. He used to be one of Austria's people."

Italy crossed his arms, still looking sullen. "I guess…but I want you to stay with _me_."

There was a sense of clinginess Germany could sense, and if Italy wasn't older, a temper tantrum might have started. Sighing inaudibly, he rubbed his temples. "I'll stay with you tomorrow night, until I have to go back for Stalingrad."

"Hooray!" Italy flung his arms out and Germany reached out to stop the coming embrace. Italy standing close was no immediate problem, but displays of affection was still taboo. The denied twin slunk back, but the happiness was still present. "Oh! I'll be late for church! I'll pray for you too, Germany! Maybe come back for dinner? I promise I won't let Romano put salt in your food this time~!" With that, the blur ran out the door, leaving a disoriented Germany in his wake.

--

Romano was already there when Italy came in the church through the backdoor. Making his way quietly down the aisle, he was happy to see so many of his people still coming for service. Il Duce had pondered stopping such disorganized religion for something more rigid and formal, but it had been in the twins' nature and he had ultimately decided to give the people God if they wanted God. Italy slid into the pew next to Romano, who glowered at him for being late from the hymnal.

There was an unspoken contact through their eyes; twins didn't have to talk. _Where were you? You smell like snow. Don't tell me that bastard's back._

_Only for a while, brother! He came to visit me! What did I miss?_

_We prayed for our troops. What did you do? Why did he make you late? What did he do?_

_Nothing! I was just talking to him! Goodness, Romano! What page are we on_?

The bad mood radiating from his twin continued throughout the mass and as the last note from the last song rang through the church, Romano turned to him. "We'll continue this outside, when you're done with reconciliation."

Italy had enjoyed a hearty discussion of sin and forgiveness and pasta baking methods with the priest and he had felt considerably lighter as he skipped down the steps of the church, where Romano was waiting for him at the gate. "Let's go, Romano! Germany's going to be home for dinner, so we've got to go buy groceries! What should we make?"

Romano wasn't done scowling. "One wouldn't think you were done with confessing, Feliciano." Italy hummed along, ignoring the way his brother practically spat his human name. "With the way you're throwing yourself on Germany, I wouldn't be surprised if you had to stay with the priest for longer just to say what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything wrong!" Italy insisted, pulling his brother into an outdoor market.

"Don't think I don't notice it! You practically fly to that bastard whenever he's around. News flash, you idiot, but in case you haven't been noticing, those sort of people are also being rounded up and sent to Poland's house to be dealt with! Not to mention it's not right. I can't believe you." Romano crossed his arms and frowned at his brother, who had stopped to pick tomatoes. "As your brother, I can't allow this."

"You're my brother, but I can do as I want too," Italy said, a note of warning in his voice. "I'd like half a dozen of these, please!"

As the vendor bagged up their produce, Romano turned Italy to face him. "He's nothing but bad news, Feliciano. I know I can't tell you what to do, but you know how it is. I'll forget about the Bible, since it seems you've forgotten everything it speaks about, but let me remind you that since that man's gotten into our lives, we're now facing that northern horror, bushy brows, and now that idiot across the ocean! I don't know why you would associate with such people, Feliciano, I honestly—"

"You _can't_ tell me what to do!" Italy shouted, startling a few people around them. "You know that, cause you just said so! I hate when you give me crap about Ludwig! I _like_ him, alright? Is that what you want me to say? I don't care who we have to deal with! Stop complaining about him, okay? I understand you don't like him, but you can't tell me how to feel!" Italy grabbed the bag of tomatoes from the dazed vendor, a blush as red as tomatoes on his face. "I like him," he repeated, throwing the words at his shocked twin, "and nothing you say will change that! So stop harping about it!"

"Feliciano…" Romano started, the surprise in his voice showing, but Italy interrupted him.

"And if we really, _really_ have to start on the holy Bible, I'll remind _you_ about a certain Iberian who hasn't given up on you yet and you keep pushing him away, so spread your sexual frustration elsewhere because I don't want to deal with it!"

Romano's face darkened. "Don't talk about him like that," he said warningly.

"I'll talk about him as much as I want!" Italy retorted, his voice rising high and shrill so the vendors and shoppers nearby started avoiding them. The tomato vender seemed desperate to shoo them away. "How long has it been since you've last seen Antonio? He's been picking around trying to talk to you! How about you confess_ that_, Romano? How about you confess—"

Romano slapped Italy hard across the face, the sound echoing through the market. Both twins were heavily flushed but Italy had a triumphant expression on his face, proud that he had riled his brother up so well.

"_Fine_," Romano hissed. "Fine. We'll drop it. But don't tell me I didn't warn you." Turning his heel and storming away, the twin quickly disappeared in the backdrop of shoppers and Italy turned as well, taking his pride and tomatoes with him.

--

"What do you want." There was no question in the voice, just an apathetic collection of words needed to be said. Japan didn't answer at first, standing in the doorway and watching Hong Kong.

"Saving you. Saving all of us. We've been stomped on by the west long enough. You won't have to worry about England anymore. This is Asia for Asians."

"Not that I'm interested, but that exactly does that mean?" There was a bit of an accent in the island's voice. Japan narrowed his eyes. To think another island could have touched across the globe like this. How longer until his allies in the west would subdue that blonde nation? Never soon enough.

"I'm helping to bring about a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere," Japan announced proudly, sheathing his sword. Hong Kong was not a great world power like China; there was nothing to worry about. He was bigger and could knock the trading post a bit if things got messy. "We are all going to be independent from the rest of the world. We can be ourselves."

"Is that real?" Hong Kong stared into his tea. "Is it for us, or is it for _you_?"

Japan didn't answer. There was nothing to say. "You should be more truthful," Hong Kong said, shaking his head. "If that's what you're selling. You're a missionary for a faulty religion."

"The truth hurts sometimes," Japan said, his hand resting on his katana. "Some just don't want to hear it. China didn't. Now he's in this sorry state."

Hong Kong looked into Japan's eyes, the same apathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Japan."

--

Italy had gone home without him. Romano had a feeling his stupid, stubborn twin hadn't bothered to find him after finishing with shopping. Now he walked home alone, staring down the street. Things were different, with all these political slogans plastered all over the place. He didn't recognize his hometown anymore.

There was a familiar smell of pasta wafting from the house and from Italy's cheerful song from within, Romano could easily consider himself forgiven. It was not in his nature to stay mad at his brother anyway; Italy did many irritating things and he knew he'd be upset about something else sooner or later. But Germany _did_ give him a bad taste in his mouth; with older brother intuition, associating with the blonde nation and his albino kraut of a brother was not going to turn into anything too positive.

There was a small basket of tomatoes sitting on the doorstep; Romano wondered for a moment why Italy would just leave them there for him when he could have given them to him in the house. But as he neared, there was a note attached to the basket, in scrawled black ink and almost illegible handwriting. Romano picked it up and read the card.

_Romano – I haven't seen you in a while since that kiss you gave me. Would I be unreasonable to expect more? Best wishes, España_

His stomach flipped and he bit into the card, ripping it in half with his teeth.

--

_Don't test me, second guess me_.

--

To be continued

--

Note: Would it be unreasonable for me to say I LOVE this fic? History is beautiful. After all, let's face it, Hitler was a Germany/Austria shipper. It shapes what we are. Especially when I can bend it for more Hungary-esque purposes. But what else is it for?! Review, please!


	9. Peacemaker

**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: Track Nine – Peacemaker – Green Day

**Minimal fluff 09!**

--

Nine – Peacemaker

--

_For I am the Caesar, I'm going to seize the day._

--

There was music. There was music at the gate, playing gently as the doors opened to the camp. Germany stared up at the sky above the doors, up at the troubled clouds. They had abandoned the car a distance back, so no quick escapes or getaways could happen. Italy stood at his side, a polite distance away as instructed to not alarm the Fuhrer. Romano stood an arm's length behind them, watching his brother's back.

"Welcome, _Herr Deutschland_." The guards nodded politely at the twins. Italy smiled back charmingly, as Romano ignored the gesture. The head officer led the three to one of the back barracks, strolling past aisles of desolate packs of people staring at them through hollowed eyes and torn clothing.

"Things have been going well. Any resisters have been taken care of. Production has been steady." The officer rattled off the report as Germany followed him, scanning the faces of all the imprisoned around them. There was the smell of dead and dirt. Italy didn't make a sound, his lips sealed as he walked past the suffering with glassy eyes.

_What has he turned you into_? Romano thought desperately.

"Please!" A man suddenly flung forward, landing close to Germany's heel. This stopped the small procession, as Germany turned to this interrupter. "I have done nothing wrong! _Heil Fuhrer! _I am a German! I should not be here!"

"Get back," the officer growled.

"Please…you understand…" the man crawled up to Germany. "I've seen you before in the streets…I know you must be an important man…help me! I fought for our country! I am a true blooded German…"

Germany opened his mouth to speak but Italy spoke first, a cool look in his eyes. "You don't know who you're speaking to. Crawl back where you came from."

"Believe me! I have done nothing wrong…they rounded up all the undesirables and seized me too! It must have been an accident…"

"We don't make accidents," Germany replied, equally as coolly.

"Sir! I beg you! Check my papers! I am a true German! Get me away from all these fleas! I…" The man let out a wail and knelt in front of Germany's boots. Romano noticed the man's feet were bare and bloodied. He watched apathetically as Italy reached for his holster.

"Don't touch him," his brother snarled.

"Don't waste your bullet, _Herr Italien,_" the officer said calmly, taking out his gun and aiming. There was a pop and the man stopped his advances, lying in the middle of the path. "I apologize for the inconvenience. Please step over the body. We will dispose of this later."

Italy's hand wandered back to his side and Romano saw it quiver for a moment. Italy tried hard; tried so hard to show he was worthy of being Germany's friend. There was not a moment Romano doubted his brother's willingness to throw down his weapons and run away; but this was a global stage now, and Italy couldn't abandon Germany like he could his pride. There were too many eyes on him now.

"I have heard of this doctor," Germany spoke up, as if the incident never occurred.

"Yes. He is very professional. He has done much research…many experiments. He is trying to find the perfect combinations of traits…he is doing a great duty to you, _Herr Deutschland._" The officer reached a medical building and knocked politely. "_Herr Deutschland _and his allies are here."

A man in a white lab coat opened the door, a smile on his face. "Welcome! Welcome. _Herr Mengele_ is down this way. Please follow me."

The little group trooped down the hallway, the scent of blood lingering in the air. A dwarf was led into a room by a nurse. There was a scream somewhere in the building but no one in particular reacted. The doctor excused himself to enter a room and returned a moment later. "I'm sorry, but _Herr Mengele_ will meet you outside. He has just performed a trial and must clean up. I hope you don't mind."

The officer left them outside the medical ward and returned to his post. Germany continued staring ahead at the door, a blank look on his face. Italy fidgeted, looking as if he might burst into dance of a tune in his head.

Finally the door opened and a dark haired man came down the steps to greet Germany, accompanied by two nurses. He saluted the Fuhrer before starting his introduction. "Greetings, _Herr Deutschland_. I'm honored you came to see me. My name is Josef Mengele." He turned for a moment to the Italies and a strange glint entered his eyes. "Are these the esteemed Italian twins?"

"Yup! I'm North Italy!" Italy extended his hand for a shake but Mengele continued staring at him.

"And you two are nations, yes? You cannot die by normal means?"

Italy seemed unsure at the question and glanced at Germany, who interjected. "Yes, they are nations. Will you explain the nature of your research, _Herr Mengele_?"

"Of course!" The doctor proceeded in a discussion of the many experiments he had tried before, of all sorts of endurance tests and injections and how he had been failing as the subjects had died before anything fruitful could come about. "Why today, I just amputated the leg of a dwarf to see if such small bodies could regenerate. Otherwise, why else would they be so small in stature?"

"What happened?" Romano asked.

"He bled to death." Mengele shook his head, a disappointed smile on his face. "Nothing happened. He just sat there crying out and his leg remained as stubby as ever. But we will make a breakthrough. I myself am interested in the unique, abnormal qualities of twins…" A strange twisted grin crossed his face. "We have had a few twins ourselves. Some of them just children. They seem to like me. I hope they will be promising."

Germany looked at him. Mengele continued a maniacal stare at the brunette twins. "If you don't me asking," he asked in a breathless manner, "you two cannot die from normal circumstances…would you mind being my test subjects? You would be treated most well by my staff…surely _nations_ would show promising results? There won't be any sort of pain…you won't mind, would you?" He took a step to Italy, who took a nervous step back.

"What sort of tests would you be doing?" Italy asked in an antsy voice.

"Oh…nothing much…we think twins have spectacular powers laying dormant within…there is acid we use to try and waken these abilities…heat also should not be a problem…I also have pressure chambers to see how much my abnormals can handle…so far, there's been more blood than success…" Mengele looked crestfallen for a moment, before brightening. "But it may be different! You would being performing a great deed for Germany!" He held his hand out, almost grabbing Italy greedily, but the nation shied back again.

"I don't want to," he whispered in a small voice. Mengele looked disappointed again, but there was a fierce determination that never went away. He looked expectantly at Germany, as if the taller nation could somehow convince Italy to agree.

"No tests will be performed on Italy," Germany said firmly, shifting so he was partially standing in front of the cowering nation. Italy gripped his sleeve.

Mengele shrugged his shoulders, before turning to Romano. "I would not need them both…one twin is enough…"

Romano felt his blood run cold.

"You can't have Romano either!" Italy shrieked. He reached out to grab his brother to pull him behind Germany's protective figure but Romano stepped away.

"_Neither_ Italy," Germany specified, a warning in his voice. Mengele shrugged again.

"If you have second thoughts…we may figure out the secret to the ideal race." Mengele wiped his hands on his lab coat. "I have many tests to do; if there is nothing more, I must request my leave. _Heil Fuhrer_. Good day." Mengele turned back to the twins, the animalistic glint in his dark eyes.

Romano turned and ran.

He ignored the shout from his brother. He ignored the hands reaching out to him from the prisoners of the camp. He ignored the guards who called for him at the gates and didn't turn when he saw Poland limping around and didn't respond to the half-hearted greeting. He didn't feel tired; just scared and natural, running as he was conditioned to do, obeying the instinct that he had never been able to shake.

He didn't stop until he reached his house, back in the sunny peninsula. He would not speak to Il Duce; no, until his heart slowed and he forgot the coveting dark eyes of the doctor, he would not see anyone.

Spain was standing at the doorstep, setting down another offering of tomatoes when Romano ran up, but it was too late to turn and run away again. Spain turned and saw him and his face lit up.

"Romano! I was worried you might not be back! Where were you? Did you run all the way here?"

Romano stood in the pathway, too terrified to move forward, too terrified to turn back. Spain leapt down the stairs and jogged up to him, a look of concern across his normally cheerful features. "What happened?" he demanded, the old protector returning. "You're crying."

Everything was messed up. He regretted his words and he regretted his actions and he hated the position he was in and he tried to forget it all as he buried his head in the startled Spaniard's shoulder. There was a moment of hesitation before Spain held him back, in a gentle embrace that took a bit of the world off his shoulders.

"Don't cry. Boss Spain's here."

Romano didn't turn to face the day until his eyes were dry and he had finished smelling the cinnamon dust. Spain didn't ask him any questions, just held him and murmured endearings in the hybrid language they invented.

"Boss." Romano's voice cracked, his eyes bloodshot as he extracted himself from his niche in Spain's arms and looked up at the sad smile the older nation gave him. "You won't come in, will you? You won't dance with us, will you? Please don't. Stay where you are."

"We've already went through this. I am completely neutral. I promised you." Spain kissed the red eyes, the drying cheeks. He hovered close to Romano's mouth, dark eyes asking but not daring to make a move. _Can I, or would it be inappropriate?_

Romano kissed him, savoring Spain's arms around his waist as he reached and pulled the scatter-brained idiot closer. Spain kissed back, every body movement of his singing as Romano leaned into him. "I've wanted to do that," he admitted, as Romano took a breath. "I didn't give you much to go on last time."

"Boss." He almost choked on the words and he wanted to cry again. "I love you. But I can't right now. I've got my own battles and you're staying out. Please don't come back until it's over. I might not…I might not be able to…" The tears came again and Romano wildly swiped them out of the way. "Until it's over, take care of yourself."

Spain sighed finally, burying his nose into Romano's hair. "This is why I didn't want to you leave, Romano. But I know you can fight your own wars. Make the Boss proud. I'll see you before you know it."

Romano cried as he left, flinging the tomatoes after him and sitting down on the cobbled path next to the red splotches as the day faded to the evening and Italy found him in that state and came to soothe his brother better again.

--

Labor camps.

_Please! Please, don't!_

Concentration camps.

_Spare my family! Please! Take me!_

Resistance movements.

_They would hang, but not without putting up a fierce fight, screaming anti-Nazi slogans and spitting in their arresters' faces._

Undesirables.

_Religions were wiped out, people captured and killed, no wanderers or communists or homosexuals here._

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw this. It did not matter if he had only done so to rest, or to sleep. The screams came back, the commanding voice of his Fuhrer. The little maid smiled at him sweetly with all the charm and innocence notable of Italy and he felt as if he was looking into the memories of someone else.

Tonight, a name associated itself with the little girl and Germany felt it leave his lips before he could truly think it over. "Italy."

"Hmm?" The nation next to him murmured sleepily. Italy had insisted in sleeping in the same bed again, and Germany could not stop him. In the end, the blonde had only succeeded in forcing the nation to put pants on so the situation did not get any more uncomfortable. He was not used to sharing a bed, even in the most chaste of ways.

"Austria's playing again," Italy yawned, hearing the first strains of piano music. The Fuhrer had invited the nation over and the high strung man had shown no signs of fatigue. If so, Austria seemed consumed in playing, always sitting at the piano or staring out the window. Germany didn't reply.

"Who am I?" he asked into the darkness.

"You're Germany." Italy leaned up, peeking into Germany's peripheral vision. "You're Germany," the nation said again, smiling just as sweetly. And as if things were different and the music wasn't building into a high crescendo, Italy leaned over and kissed Germany.

Germany didn't resist.

--

_Death to the ones at the end of the serenade_.

To be continued

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Note: I was really excited to learn about Mengele. I mean, Italy twins. Some historically-inaccurate fluff. Because I really love the Italies. Review, please.


	10. Last of American Girls

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track Ten – Last of the American Girls – Green Day

**---**

Ten – Last of American Girls

--

_She's got a little book of conspiracies right in her hand…_

--

If it hadn't been bad enough Japan was flitting in and out and knocking him about and _winning_, England had come to complain.

"America," the island announced, standing in front of his ex-colony in his office, "it's come to my attention that one of your generals has been making a fuss with my soldiers."

America frowned. "What are you coming to complain about now?"

England cocked his head, willing himself to breathe his frustration out. "Let me remind you of a battle that took place recently. Kasserine Pass? Ring any bells? You _lost_ that one?"

"So?" America asked bitterly, hated of being reminded of his losses.

"You need to reign in your kid, Fredendall. He's been giving all sorts of bothers to my men. We can't have a loose cannon running around."

"If they weren't as uptight as you were…"

"God, America! They're all as green as you are!" England threw his arms up to the sky. "It's a wonder why you're still here! I wouldn't be surprised if you just withdrew from the whole if you're going to embarrass us out on the field!"

"That's what you want, isn't it?" America shot back. "For me to leave? That's completely fine with me. I'm not fighting for you. I'm waiting just for Japan. If you don't want me here, I'll go." Swiping his bomber jacket from a nearby chair, America flung it over his shoulders and started for the door.

"No, wait. America." When the blonde didn't pause, or even slow, England called for him again. "America!" The taller nation jolted to a stop when he felt a tug on his sleeve, turning to see England with his hand outstretched to grab him. The older nation was looking away, embarrassment preventing an utter staring match. "I'm sorry. I spoke too quickly. I'm grateful for you help, America, I really am…but we're just not winning."

America sighed, letting his agitation out. Japan had been fluttering back and forth out of his reach, playing with him like a kitten and yarn, not to mention the European front was not starting out so well. But things came to those who waited, and he was a hero. Heroes did not lose tempers. He turned, away from the door, with England still gripping his sleeve.

"My brother's helping with the air force," America said, staring at England. "And even though we're losing now, we're learning from our mistakes and we won't make them again. I'll have General Eisenhower take care of Fredendall. The Axis are wrong. As the fighters of justice, heroes always win." America smiled smugly to himself, knowing it to be a sign of his immaturity, but hell, he was a hero. "So don't worry about it, old man."

"That's that sort of thing that makes me worried," England murmured, finally letting go of the bomber jacket. "I know we agreed to finish the European Axis before moving to Japan, and you joined to face Japan…but I can't help but wonder if you're going a bit hasty just to move things forward."

"No way!" America tossed his head. "I have extreme self-discipline." But he wouldn't lie; he wanted and pined to finally avenge himself, to let Japan know how much it hurt. He had never had any troubles with Japan and this was too out of the blue to be taken in stride.

"I hope so." England finally looked up at him, eyes of anxiety. "I don't want you to get hurt, America. I'll help you in any way and…"

America quickly reached out and clapped a hand over England's mouth. "Oh no you don't. Don't go spewing out old man parables. I like my youth, thank you very much."

England sputtered, pulling away. "Then I won't tell you. You'll have to learn to fall anyway." Huffing, he turned and stormed back to his desk, turned away so he couldn't see America smile slightly and open his mouth as if to call him back but thought better of it and closed it again.

--

Japan smiled to himself. He was older. He wasn't supposed to be a bully. But he couldn't help it. America was just so young and clueless. He hadn't wanted to hurt him, but the nation had decided to go with the provoke anyway. It was only self defense. Flying in a carrier, fresh out of the way of the real military, Japan wondered how it would go today. America had not been winning; today would not be the beginning of a new day. Midway was too important a base to lose.

And who was there to kid? America was so novice that he thought the little Doolittle Raid could have taken Tokyo. It did as it implied: it did little. There was the heat of revenge, Japan could feel, and he almost enjoyed the feeling. He wrote about it many times, and to actually have the emotion directed at him…it was so _inspiring._

"Midway, coming up," the voice on the receiver crackled, the static doing little to hide the excitement.

Japan fell back to watch. Dipping lower, he came upon some of his carriers soaring through the water and…

There was an explosion a little ways off. If Japan hadn't been caught so unawares, he may have radioed in a warning but when he regained himself, there had been another explosion.

"What's going on?"

There was a bit of static and Japan eyed his radio. Someone was coming on his frequency, a foreign voice. "Japan." There was no mistaking that anger.

"America," Japan said calmly, ducking back in the clouds. He was sure he would not be attacked, America would have told his men not to waste ammo on a nation and he had not the weapons to help his fellow men. "Where are you? I don't think you wouldn't want to see my potential defeat."

"I do see you. You don't need to hide. I'm flying nearby. I'm going to win this one."

Japan chuckled. "America-san, I do hope you strike it lucky one day. It feels almost unfair to win so much."

"Shut up!" Japan thought better than to goad America on. There was still much for the younger nation to learn. "_You_ listen good, Japan. Know this: the man who planned your defeat is Chester Nimitz. Remember him, and think back at how you have been foiled today, because this will be the first in many victories for me."

Japan was about to reply when the static returned to explain America had gotten off the frequency and with the body blipping off the radar, the boy had stormed off. Japan smiled slightly before ducking back under the clouds.

"How's the situation?" he asked.

"We've got to retreat," one of his men said. "We're losing much more than they are. They must have intercepted us. It was an ambush. I'm sorry, Nihon-sama. We have failed you."

Failed? Such a sour dessert. Despite himself, Japan laughed. "America-san!" he said, hearing the silence from his surprised men. "Well, it looks like you're growing up, at least!"

"We lost, Nihon-sama," another man clarified, worried that the nation had confused the situation with a more positive one.

"I know," Japan said, the smile twisting into a grimace. "It has to be our last."

--

Stalingrad was approaching; Germany could see it. His troops marched tiredly on; Prussia had been glad to see him, inquiring what had happened in the western front. There was a short, brief exchange of information.

"Well, my awesomeness gave us a bit of a head start," Prussia bragged in the tent. "It's always great that winter's over. We're going to hit Russia where it hurts. Damn straight. You have no idea how much that guy's un-awesomeness is starting to affect me. Good thing you're back, I can go spread my awesomeness elsewhere. How is Italy?"

Germany stared at him expressionless. "He is fine." He did not mention how Italy kissed him, how he had kissed back, how he had held the temperamental nation, how he had made Italy cry his name.

Prussia knew, or seemed to know. Germany wasn't surprised; the next morning, Romano had given him a look good enough to kill the average human. Siblings always knew what happened.

"I'm happy for you, little bro," he grinned, but the grin started to fade. "But now you've got to deal with Russia. We should be able to take it if we're fast. You've got to have fast feet, little _Bruder_. We might lose the advantage."

Germany nodded, understanding.

And now, as he neared the city, he wondered if he had been fast enough. Russia was standing there, a docile smile perpetually on his face and faucet in hand. The men behind him didn't look offering. Germany steeled himself for the fight; he had to take Stalingrad, had to march and take over Russia before the big-boned nation marched for him and preyed on the tender boarders of the Axis region.

"Not a step back," Russia said happily, keeping eye contact with Germany. "We're not letting them take Stalingrad, are we?"

--

Italy bit his lip. Germany would not like to hear this.

"What do you mean they're pushing back?" Romano demanded. "America couldn't have done as much!"

Italy felt blood in his mouth and took his teeth from his bloodied lip. "Yeah," he said weakly, fidgeting. It was not a positive breakfast time topic to discuss, especially when Il Duce had to be informed. Romano shook his head slowly as the realization dawned them.

"I'm not telling him."

"Please."

"No. No, no, no. This means I've got things to worry about. What if they come in through North Africa, Italy? Do you know how close they'll be? I don't think we can hold them off if they're coming in from the west and then from the south and Russia doesn't look so good. Italy, I don't like how this is going."

"We didn't lose the initiative yet," Italy said quickly, but Romano still looked terrified. It must have mirrored on his face.

"Did you tell Prussia yet?"

"No. But he'll find out. And your disgusting wurst idiot will too. He'll come back, that's for sure. I heard Prussia talking, and Russia doesn't look like he'll give in soon. I don't like him, but Germany can come save our butts. Now when it's looking like this."

Italy felt like crying again.

"Don't cry, Italy, please."

"I'm scared, Romano."

"Don't talk like that. You're right. We haven't lost yet. They're just matching up to us. We still have the upper hand. If we give up now, we give it to them. We've still got time."

Italy's lip was quivering, but he nodded. "We can do it, Romano. We _can_. I know it. Right?"

"Stupid, don't say 'right' if you know we can."

Italy closed his eyes. "I wish you were back, Germany. I wish you could be with me right now. I wish you could be here to tell me this anxiety I'm feeling is just because you're not here. I wish you could take away this foreboding. I wish…"

"Shut up, Italy."

"Romano. Say it with me." Italy reached across the table and grasped his brother's hand. "I want to hear what you wish."

Romano resisted, but Italy's eyes implored him. Taking a breath, Romano studied the potted plant between them, the green leaves and hardy stem. "I wish…we'd never gotten into this war in the first place."

--

_She's a natural disaster, she's the last of the American girls._

--

To be continued

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Note: Please. Could I not include America in this chapter? Psh. Review, please.


	11. Murder City

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track Eleven – Murder City – Green Day

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Eleven – Murder City

--

_I'm wide awake after the riots, this demonstration of our anguish…_

--

Germany stood a distance away, watching the crowd outside in Rosenstrasse. Mostly women, these people had been standing the frigid cold for days already, protesting. It was amazing, really, the power of a group of humans. It was another awe-striking power of the love between a couple, the love that drove these German women to fight for their Jewish husbands.

It was cold, but Germany was starting to think he would never feel cold again.

Russia had fought valiantly, cackling and struggling like the powerful nation he was, and forced him back, and not even Prussia could step in to intervene. There were other pressing matters to look into. There was no energy needed to waste on a fight that was blatantly a lost cause. Germany wouldn't say he _retreated_ necessarily…more like he picked his battles. Russia's satisfied look unnerved him, though; it wouldn't be the last he saw the snowy haired nation in battle.

"What's going on?" Germany turned, no longer surprised at Italy's sudden appearances. He had learned not to doubt the speed the twin took to get to his side. Bundled up in numerous scarves and a thick coat (no doubt, Romano's work as Feliciano had already proved to withstand wind and rain to see him), Italy blew out a steady stream of steam. He pointed a gloved hand at the mob. "What's happening?"

"Resistance," Germany murmured.

Italy nodded, letting his hand fall back in his pocket. "Is it working?"

"Yes. They'll be released soon."

Italy smiled behind the layers of clothing. "I like happy endings." He didn't turn to Germany when the blonde opened his mouth to speak. "Don't say it. Don't tell me happy endings aren't possible. I want…I want to believe it for a little bit, at least."

"I wasn't going to say anything about that. I was just going to say that it's very chilly and was going to offer you to come to my house."

Italy's eyes were shining as he turned, looking as determined as the women a distance away. "Really? And are you going to warm me up, Germany?"

"As best I can."

"Good." As they made their way through the streets toward Germany's house, Italy wandered until he was pressed right against the taller nation. "Because I'm _really_ cold, Germany…"

--

China waited patiently in the shadows as the last of the escapees started toward him. Yes, he had been beaten down. Yes, he had been abused in the ways no human mind could comprehend. But after it was all done, he found himself thrown to his own devices, and this was how an old geezer like him would reply.

"Hurry," he whispered, as the other escapees started off into the darkness. "You won't know when they'll look for you."

A few of the escaping slaves glanced at him, grateful for his help but still unknowing of his worldly nature. He followed as they snuck away, careful to avoid detection.

Japan found them anyway. Japan had a knack of finding people.

"You think you could get them away?" Japan had snarled in China's face after the fugitives had been discovered and rounded up. "You think despite the world I have to fight against, I'd turn a blind eye on Hanaoka? I have eyes everywhere, you old man, and you only have your aged ones to depend on."

China stared back, bleary eyed and bleeding, but defiant. "What will you do now, Japan?"

Japan sneered. "You'd like to know! I'm rounding out a bunch of your so-called refugees, and I'm going to kill them, slowly and painfully. Let the rest of your people know that I won't tolerate such behavior, not when I'm in control. You let your people run amok, but I won't be having this sort of thing. But who knows? I'm in a rush; maybe I'll be merciful this time."

China stood silent, still rebellious, but Japan had seen the hesitation in his eyes and only laughed as he left the battered nation in the interrogation room and left to inflict his punishment.

--

Korea made a lot of things. He made the world. He made the wheel. He invented fire. Basically, he made everything the other nations claimed to have created. But he knew.

He also knew he didn't create this sort of torture.

"What are you going to do with them?" Korea asked, his voice faltering as he watched Japan calmly usher women from his house into transport vehicles. "Japan, I know you've occupied my vital regions and I can't say I own your breasts anymore (but I still do), but you can't be taking my people for a party."

Japan turned to him, a wry smile on his face. "What else do you think I'm going to do? It won't be a party for some of them, I'm sure, but you wouldn't want me to do a Nanjing on you, would you?"

Korea shook his head, although he still looked skeptical. "But what are you doing?"

Japan sighed, shaking his head in irritation. "Because you are so slow, Korea, I'll tell you. They'll be working in comfort houses. We won't let them die."

Korea shook his head again, looking horrified. "You can't do this, Japan. You've done a lot of crazy things, but this is by far the craziest." He was silenced as Japan pointed his katana at him.

"Not another word, or you won't be happy with what I do to you."

Korea bit his lip and stayed wordless.

--

Prussia didn't tell his brother, or the Fuhrer (especially not the Fuhrer) what he was doing, why he was sneaking out although he had the right to leave and come to his house as he pleased. Walking down the street, he whistled slightly, nodding as he passed a few Nazi soldiers. Ducking into an alleyway, he trotted down until he came to a door in the building, which he slipped through.

"The black market's been growing, and supplying us all the goods we need that we can't get under the Fuhrer's rule," a youth was saying as Prussia edged to the back of the room. There was a good sized group of young people gathered, some glancing at him and some kept their attention at the speaker. "The days of the Fuhrer must come to an end. As youth, we cannot do much, but we'll do our best to spread resistance!"

"_Edelweisspiraten!"_ the crowd cheered, although not too loud to be heard outside the four walls. Prussia grinned. Anything with the word 'pirate' in it was bound to be awesome.

Especially when they took to the streets and routinely beat up the Fuhrer's Youth. He knew his little brother was adamant in following their stiff-lipped boss, but there was a limit to Prussia. Just like their people, divided in their ideas, he couldn't stand being ordered around by such an un-awesome guy for too long. And anyway, he was getting tired of just fighting other nations. Taking part in the street brawls was fun too. Awesome, actually.

It was his way of punching the Fuhrer in the face without actually doing so, Prussia reasoned, smashing his fist into a misguided follower unfortunate to cross his path.

--

"I don't understand," the Fuhrer said, pacing in his study as Germany stood attentively at the door. "You wouldn't believe what happened to me today."

Germany didn't raise the question, too preoccupied with wondering if Italy had successfully escaped yet; they had only a half hour to themselves before his boss returned home suddenly and demanded his audience.

"Why does he come home at such awkward timings?" Italy whispered frantically, trying to pull his pants on as Germany quickly rendered himself presentable in front of a mirror. After an officer had knocked on the door and summoned him, he had dressed in a frenzy, instructing Italy to be silent – after all, although it was no problem for Italy to be seen in the house, to be seen in that sort of mussed state was not a good idea.

"Are you going to be alright?" Germany turned to Italy, still struggling to get his coat on, his shirt half buttoned.

"I'll be fine! He'll be wondering where you are by now. Go! No, wait!" Italy dive-bombed across the room, stumbling over himself as he teetered over to Germany. "Before I go…" Italy pressed his lips against Germany's quickly, running his hands quickly down Germany's collar to straighten it out. "Thank you for a good time!"

Italy and his provocative choice of words.

"_Deutschland?_ Are you listening?"

"_Ja, _Fuhrer. What happened?"

The Fuhrer, unperturbed by Germany's lack of concentration, hurried on. "There has been another attempt on my life. This is not the first one, or the second one! You would think there are people that want me dead!"

_That is what assassination attempts are usually for, yes_, Germany thought.

"And after all I've done for this beautiful country! I know there will always be opponents, either peace lovers or those in denial, but I have done wonders for this land. Europe is still in fear of us! To think of the insolence!" The Fuhrer shook his head. "_Deutschland_…not to point fingers…but have your heard the rumors of what your brother is up to?"

Prussia? "No, he hasn't told me anything."

"These are just rumors, mind you…but there have been reports of a certain albino running around with the delinquents of today. I understand that nations move to the beat of their people's hearts, but I shudder to think that a part of our land is divided. Are you sure your brother is still with us?"

Germany couldn't say, it being Prussia and all, but he chose his words carefully. "I am certain he will not oppose you, and I will assess this situation to make sure it is as I say."

The Fuhrer, looking a bit troubled, nodded gravely. "I must say, to have so many assassinations aimed at you…it is…most anxious. I cannot trust anyone anymore. A nation will never do away with its leader, will it?" He looked suspiciously at Germany, as if the blonde had expressed a dangerous notion.

"Only the people can change this," Germany rattled off. "As nations, we merely watch."

The Fuhrer nodded, satisfied with the answer. "I will order the end of these would-be assassins. Order will be returned. Things will be as they were."

"Yes, they will," Germany assured, not because it was how he felt, but because it was what he had to say.

--

Italy hurried home to find Romano in a bad, bad shape. "What's wrong, brother?" he asked, coming slowly up to his older twin, careful not to reveal too much of his disheveledness to his knowing sibling. But Romano wouldn't have said anything even if he noticed.

"It's bad," Romano murmured, gripping the table.

"How bad?"

Romano stared into Italy's eyes. "I say it's bad, so it's pretty damn bad, Italy. They're coming."

"Who's coming?" He was not in the mood to play guessing games, no matter how much he loved them in all other circumstances.

"The Allies. America. He sent me a postcard." Flashing a card with the American flag on it, Romano shuddered. "Sicily…I'm worried about Sicily. This is postmarked from northern Africa. If he says he's paying me a visit, it's Sicily they'll hit first."

Italy could feel the fear radiating from his twin. "It'll be okay, Romano. We can handle them."

"It's America. You know him. He has a beef with Japan. He might not be so lenient on Japan's ally."

"But it's America. You know he won't be too mean. Remember…remember…he'll be nice if we make him some pasta…or maybe…gelato…" Italy knew he was groping at straws and fell silent. "Hey, brother," he said, taking a breath as Romano looked at him. "You said you wanted out. Maybe this is your ticket out."

"Maybe. But it'll hurt. What about you?"

Italy smiled passively. "I'll follow you, of course."

"But if I give in, then you have to leave your stupid beloved Germany." A disapproving look told that Italy's state of messiness had not gone unnoticed. Italy flushed politely, as he ought.

"We're brothers," Italy said softly. "Family is more important than that."

--

_We've come so far, we've been so wasted; it's raining all over our faces._

--

To be continued

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Note: It has not been a good week. In fact, you could say hell week has just started. I am close to a 21st century breakdown myself. Anyway, my life unrelated, I like Black Japan. He is cool. Review, please.


	12. Viva la Gloria? Little Girl

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: --

**---**

Twelve – Viva la Gloria? (Little Girl)

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_Little girl, little girl, why are you crying? Inside your restless soul, your heart is dying._

--

If now wasn't a good time to stay homebound, Romano didn't know what was. He sort of understood why France put himself on house arrest the days leading up to his invasion. There was a wracking fear that came with the knowledge of something bad; a fear so acute that a step outside could bring the whole sky crashing down.

Every single movement seemed to give him away.

Feliciano no longer came to see him. He figured the wurst bastard had something to do with this. Probably told his twin, "_There's no point in seeing something that's about to fall. Save yourself the grief."_

But Feliciano felt it too. There was an antsiness that he didn't possess, one that caused his fingertips to twitch sometimes. These weren't his to control; somewhere in the north, Feliciano was bedridden too, and crying.

He wished he could go to his brother's side, but at a time like this, any part of a nation had to stay where they were.

He would sacrifice himself for his brother if that's what it took.

--

The soles of his feet hurt first. An intense burn, searing so he couldn't walk anymore. Feliciano wouldn't be able to feel it as strongly, not being so close to the source. Sicily.

Whenever an airplane flew overhead, Romano wanted to bury himself in the pillows and be whisked back to a time when Spain was still in the house to protect him. A time when all he had to worry about was breaking stupid furniture.

It was a choice he had to live with. He'd gotten involved with the wrong people. Although he hadn't been Germany's biggest fan, like his brother, he had agreed with their activities and this was what he had to put up with. He wouldn't grovel. He would take it without flinching.

This part of him wasn't holding out much against the part that wished for nothing more than to flee.

--

"We're almost there," America said confidently, ducked over to avoid the flying bullets. They had taken a round-a-bout way to Italy, choosing to take it from the south. England was bunkered down next to him, scowling from underneath an army helmet.

"This is so irritating," he grumbled. "Why can't Italy just smile and give in, throw around some pasta and get out of our way? Then we can beat up Germany and you can go hassle Japan." With the mention of the eastern nation, America's eyes darkened slightly, like a pool of water that suddenly became deeper. "Don't look like that, America. It's extremely unattractive."

"Aw, you called me attractive!"

"Un. There was an un."

America grinned and pulled England in for a kiss, which startled and satisfactedly shut the older nation up. "Let's do this shit!" he shouted, pulling the aviator goggles down from his head over his eyes, ready for battle.

--

Il Duce was gone. He had been overthrown. He had gotten suspicious, removed some people from authority, upset the order of things. Romano had pretended to turn a blind eye of the doings of the old King, and with him feigning ignorance and telling Il Duce all was fine, the King had raised up his own little fleet of rebels and ambushed Il Duce, capturing him and whisking him away to Ponza. His new boss, Badoglio, had wished for peace but had never proposed actually breaking the alliance with Germany.

Sometimes, if he concentrated, he could seek out Italy, no matter where he was. He found his brother lying in bed, still teary-eyed. There was a knock at the door and Italy had called, made a strange sound, which apparently was code for 'Come in,', because Germany just opened the door.

"Italy," the blonde nation said gingerly, sounding like he was walking on hot coals. "Have you spoken to your boss?"

"Germany!" Italy cried, sounding as if he was in physical pain, and with the spasms seizing his frame, Roman knew his brother was. But Romano could hold pain; Italy thrashed, losing himself in the sheets. Germany crossed the room in two strides and picked up the struggling nation in his arms. Romano growled, but he was too far away to do anything and anyway, Italy had settled, clutching at Germany.

"Italy. I need to know. Are you still on my side?"

"Yes," Italy gasped, biting his lip to keep from calling out. "Italy will always support Germany. Always! Always! I love you!"

Germany seemed to want to press further, but found himself unable to do so. Romano knew even without being a mind reader that the taller nation wanted to inquire about the telegram he had in a back pocket. There was no question what it read. There was correspondence between Italy and the Allies. Even without a full imagination, the wording left nothing to invent.

"If you leave me," Germany said, his voice unwavering as Italy twitched in his arms, "I can't be kind to you."

"I won't! _Stop_!" Romano didn't know who Italy was talking to anymore, and he heard a commotion outside his house. He felt his boss fret around somewhere in his house. Badoglio was only a man; he wouldn't know the humiliation that came with surrendering. It was everything they did. The stage was bigger this time. Willing himself not to shout out in anger, he turned his senses back to Italy. "Don't hate me," Italy whimpered, slumping in Germany's arms. "Please, please, Germany, I did my best, I can't…my boss…I won't…"

A mutual scream left the mouths of both twins in sync. Romano felt it in his blood, a hot searing pain that left stars in his eyes. He wasn't built for this kind of warfare. He wasn't sure what he should feel; complete surrender to the pain, anger at Germany for unceremoniously dumping his brother back on the bed and leaving while Italy continued crying, anger at his boss for causing this, anger at himself for starting this.

He was aware America had come to the door, but didn't acknowledge as the younger nation watched him quietly as he wrestled with the pain. There was another explosion and his heart was being ripped open again. The pain was blinding him with a wild white light and forced himself to remember when he was still a maid in Spain's house, the moment he realized he was in love with that idiot. These were happy times, and they were being maimed by this hurt.

He knew England was in the shadows, being more respectful than America than showing his face to rub it in. There was disinterest and disrespect and Romano gasped out.

"I'll sign it! I'll sign it, alright, dammit! Just make it stop!"

--

Castellano had taken them along. Without the flames and explosions, the pain was a past, although not with the tenderness of fresh wounds. Heavily bandaged and wounded in more ways than one, the twins stood in the background as the General jot down his signature. America watched them from across the room, a triumphant smile on his face.

"We are glad you decided to align with us," America's representative said, nodding.

"It's much easier like this, isn't it? No arguments or changes…it could have gone down much differently." England's rep was obviously as smug as his nation. Italy bit back a whimper and Romano groped for his hand and held it.

"Germany's going to be so mad," Italy whispered, fresh tears littering the edges of his eyes. "He's going to hate me, Romano, I don't want him to hate me…"

"He's not going to touch you," Romano promised.

"I love him," Italy blubbered, before wiping at his eyes. Romano shifted so he shielded his crying brother as America walked up to them.

"Well, it's good to be working together!" America said, extending a hand. "I know we've had our fights, but now that you've gotten on the hero side, there's nothing to worry about."

Romano gripped his brother's hand and swatted America's away. "Don't think you've done us a favor," he snarled, glaring at America's amused expression. "We don't need your help."

America scoffed, as if Romano was just a child and he was a knowing adult. "If that's how you want to think about it," he shrugged.

"Let's go, Feliciano," Romano ordered, tugging Italy along, walking with his chin up through the hallways of HMS Nelson, as if he didn't want to curl up and cry with his brother. But one of them had to be strong, and if Italy was going to sob behind him, it was his job as the older brother.

"I'm tired," Feliciano murmured, as they walked away from the vessel. "I'm so tired…"

"Me too," Romano admitted. "I wish it was over."

--

He knew who he was. He knew the little girl in his dreams now. A little boy in a maid dress and broom, sweeping the path and worrying about nothing but his next meal and meeting with his only friend his age: another blonde boy oblivious to his friend's gender who had fallen madly in love with the house servant.

Italy. Or, as he was known when he was younger, Chibitalia. He only had to ask Austria, who said tight-lipped that yes, when they were all younger, he housed a little nation maid in his house who was a boy, although Hungary dressed him up in girls clothing for her little maiden heart to enjoy.

And yes, he also housed a young fledgling nation who was doomed to a short life, who perished at the hands of France. Holy Roman Empire was his name. Germany appeared in his ashes.

He had always felt his feelings for Italy were complicated, like something left over from a past life. He thought of this as he sat at the dining room table, the house swarming with Wehrmacht members. He had known even before his information officer informed him that the new boss and the King had fled to the Allies. It was true, what the telegram said. He had already sent a letter to Japan, who only replied curtly that he would miss Italy-san's company in the future.

The door opened cautiously, as if the entering already knew about the fullness of the house. At the sound, the officers around him cocked their guns, making the telltale click. Italy slipped into the house, looking sheepish with bloodshot eyes.

"I left Romano at his house," he said quietly, holding his hands up in surrender. Where was the white flag? Germany almost wanted to laugh. "What are you here for?"

"You're not an ally anymore," Germany said briskly, standing and tugging on the leather gloves on his hands. "So you're subject to whatever I decide."

Italy stared at the floor.

"Your troops did nothing to hold me back. When your coward excuse for a boss finally told the populace that you had given in and traded sides, what did they do? They fell apart. They joined me. You have no control over your own people. I can't believe we were allies to begin with."

"It was different then, we had everything together but then Il Duce…"

"Don't make excuses." Germany waved a hand and the guns pointed at Italy lowered slightly. "I must admit you were never a worthy comrade…"

"Where were you?" Italy's outburst halted all movement. Germany paused, studying his old friend gravely. Prussia should be making a house call to Romano soon. "Where were you when America started attacking us? I thought…I thought you said you would be there for me! I always helped you when I could! Where were _you_? I didn't see you there when Rome was being bombed, you didn't help at _all_, and you say we were friends, we were more than friends--"

Germany pistol-whipped Italy across the face, letting the loud _smack_ resound through the foyer, his eyes icy cold as Italy instantly fell silent, almost surprised he had been struck.

"You know what I can do," Germany said coolly. "You've seen me do it to so many others. Don't think you can be an exception." He stared back dismissively as Italy turned to look at him, no traces of hurt in his eyes as a flowering of red blossomed on his cheek where Germany hit him.

He had loved Italy. He would not be a fool and deny it. He had loved Italy and remembered the taste of the nation's mouth when he kissed him, which was so many hours ago. But betrayal was never kind, especially not now, when Italy looked away, standing firm in his new resolve.

"You're wrong," Italy murmured, his voice soft but steady. "You were always wrong. I always thought so. But I didn't say anything because I loved you. I knew this was coming. I knew we were going to lose. But I didn't worry about that, because I loved you." He made a motion forward to touch Germany and stopped when the guns pointed up at his head again. "I was being stupid and blinded by rose colored glasses. Hell, I still love you. But you were wrong." He reached for the silver chain around his neck and pulled with such an intensity that it broke and the cross clattered to the floor. "Do whatever you want."

Germany flexed his fingers, the leather almost squeaking with the movement. "Thank you for your consent, _Italien_."

--

_There is no place like home_.

--

to be continued

--

Note: It was recently made aware to me that this fic was included in TV Tropes for notable Hetalia fanfiction. I felt like I had won the Golden Globes or something, it was so stunning. I seriously sat there for about five minutes being shocked. I can't even choke a speech out.

But yay, in my mind, the Italies are telepathic twins. Seriously. I wonder why no one explores this. Yuck, but not in the Miracle Twin sense, cause that manga sucked. Yet I read it all…

Review. Because the prewritten chapters are running short and I'll have to actually write again. Oh! And look out for a collab coming shortly between me and angelic Plasticframed Paintings! My love for PP is platonic at most!


	13. Restless Heart Syndrome

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track Thirteen – Reckless Heart Syndrome – Green Day

**---**

Thirteen – Restless Heart Syndrome

--

_I'm elated, medicated, Lord knows I've tried to find a way to get away._

--

It was dark and America didn't see him coming. Therefore, it was an ambush.

In all fairness, he figured Germany wouldn't just wait around for the Allies to make a move, but America admitted to himself that he had been hoping nothing would happen so everything could flow smoothly. He had just been prepping his troops on Slapton Sands but the E boats came out of nowhere and just like that they were under attack.

They managed to stave off defeat (it wouldn't be very heroic to lose on your own grounds, right!), but England had come running, almost frantic as if America had been in real, actual danger.

"Are you alright?" Hidden in the darkness, America felt England feel him down for wounds and grinned to himself; everyone else was preoccupied with their own troubles and would not pay attention to two old nations fretting over each other. "You're not too hurt?"

"Of course not, old man. But we're missing a few 'Bigots'."

"A _few_?"

"Alright. Ten. Sorry. We're right on finding them right now."

England sighed exasperatedly. "America, you _know_ we can't let Germany know what we're up to. You turned away and Miller almost gave us away at that party. We worked hard to divert attention and if these ten men have been captured…"

"They won't have. Don't worry about it! We'll find them. I know my men better than anyone else!"

England stood before him, expression carefully shrouded in the night. "For our sake, I hope you're right, America. You've been playing around in the water long enough. You'll have ages to make sand castles later."

"Sure. Just give me a good night kiss, okay?"

America knew the flush he couldn't see in the darkness. "How old are you, a century old?" the older nation yelped, turning on his heel and nearly tripping on the sand. Defiantly storming up the beach back to the base, England left America to pick up this men and restore order before the invasion.

--

A source of a source of a source had informed France of a 'visitor', so he had snuck out of his house arrest, past Germany and trotted out to the beach, staring out at the massive dark waves and cloudy sky. Glancing behind him to ensure he wasn't followed, he whistled slightly to take his mind off things, off worries that the weather was worsening and those block-headed nations had decided to pick tonight of all nights to storm the beach.

There were no lights, only the faint sounds of airplanes overhead. France licked the healing split lip he had and wondered how long it would be before Germany discovered him gone.

Then…a sprout of white. Almost like a spore growing in the sky. The winds whipped up and France raised a hand slightly to shield his face from the grains of sand taking to the air. The waves were crashing on the shore and the battered nation thought he could see something dark coming closer.

The white sprout in the air had been joined by a few others, floating gently as if they were only flower petals being tossed about. Most of them were heading toward the ocean, to which France realized with a jolting disappointment that the seas were dangerous at this time and landing in them meant sure death. It had to be bushy brows bad planning and America's stupid rationalization.

The parachute was coming closer, and France stepped back, the flier coming in his direction. A wind whipped up again and the cloth fluttered gently before sending the soldier spiraling toward the ground. Stepping forward hesitantly, France broke into a short jog to the landing site and extended his arms, sore and healing but still capable, to the unlucky soldier fated for a rocky landing.

It had been a while since he felt another warmth in his arms. Noticing other wet, raggled Allies troops making their way up the beach, France quickly helped the man in his arms to his feet. "Up you go. _Bonjour_, welcome to Normandy!" It was the best he could do.

"Eh! France! I didn't know you'd be here!"

France blinked but he could never mistake that voice. Canada stared up at him, the wet parachute lying limp behind him. There was a hardened, fighting spirit France never knew his old colony possessed, but it was clear in the murky blue eyes looking back at him. "I mean! England told me you were under house arrest. Did something happen?"

For a life of frivolous words and romanticism, France found himself lost for words. "You're here, Canada."

"Of course." Running a hand through his bangs to push them back, Canada eased himself from the parachute. "I couldn't just leave you to the Axis, France. England and America should be coming soon." He turned out to the water as if he could point out his brother and England, but looked back when France touched his shoulder.

"You're here," the nation repeated, and Canada cocked his head.

"France?"

Canada cried out as France grabbed him, suffocating him in a tight embrace. Canada wasn't supposed to be like this; he was supposed to be his little American colony, with bright eyes and meek disposition. Canada was not a fighter; after all, he never went out to make a name for himself, settling to be America's overlooked younger brother. It must have been England. England had corrupted his colony; that stupid island destroyed everything he touched.

"France." France felt an arm cross his back as Canada hugged him back briefly. "I'm sorry, but I _am_ here to save you, so…"

"Ah. Right." Reluctantly letting the blonde nation go, France surveyed Canada, bruised but ready for battle. "Canada, you've grown."

Canada groaned, slightly embarrassed. "You always say that when you see me, eh."

"It's true. You've blossomed into a true beauty; why, I always knew so, since I was the one…" A barrel of a gun dug into his bruised side, making the nation wince in pause. "But of course, England…"

"You're disrupting your own rescue, you bastard," England said coolly, looking drenched but bright-eyed. He poked the gun into France's side again, smirking at the latter's discomfort. "Don't thank me, you wine fanatic. You just remember this and I how I saved your ass even with all the fights we had in the past, and I hope…"

"Ah, England! He's still hurt, you know!"

"Pow, pow, pow!" Like the man-child he was, America rushed by, waving his gun around and sprinting up the wet sand, exhilarated as if he were at an amusement park. "Pow, pow, pow! Take all that, you Nazis!" Seeming oblivious to the already rising casualties, the young nation rallied up the remaining men trudging up the beach, jumping about maniacally.

"America! Don't be stupid!" Breaking away to scold his brother, Canada wandered off. France watched him wistfully, before turning to England.

"Did you do this?"

"Of course I did," England scoffed, before falling silent. "Well, I had help…but it was mainly me. Of course." He turned, scowling up at France, who looked at him amusedly. "Well? Crawl back to your house and wait for us to reach you and gallantly save you like a helpless maiden! Blood loss does not work with you, after all your abuse. I suppose it doesn't matter with the amount of wine you consume, though."

"Thanks. But I still hate you."

"Oh, don't think I'm your biggest fan now. It's just convenient to save your sorry ass, that's all."

--

Germany cursed, loud and roughly in his native language when a soldier burst into his room, quickly averting his eyes and explaining shrilly that there had been an Allies invasion at Normandy, catching them by surprise as they had been prepared for something else somewhere else. Flinging the covers away, he let his bad mood chase the soldier away, searching for his pants.

"Germany?"

"What?" the nation spat, struggling to get into his clothes again. Italy winced, the blindfold over his eyes giving him only short ideas of what had happened, his disability to understand German had left him clueless at what had happened. His wrists, raw from struggling from the handcuffs connecting to the headboard, tried again in vain to free his eyes. His brother would undoubtedly wonder where he had been all these days, but even Romano would have the sense to find he was held only slightly against his will by Germany.

"You've tried already to escape, so don't try again, okay?" The sound of a holster made Italy wish the covers were at least shielding his bruised and battered body against the cold. The handcuffs made a dull metal sound as he gave up.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business." Germany turned and left, ignoring the tears starting to soak through the blindfold. He had since hardened his conscience to Italy's crying; it seemed to be the second most popular thing the nation liked to do while being held in his house.

Italy knew Germany's knots were stronger than anything in the world so he hadn't expected to be able to loosen the one digging into the back of his head. Rubbing the blindfold against the pillow below his head, he managed to shake it off, casting the wet fabric away as his tears fell freely. He didn't know what he had been expecting; he had betrayed Germany without warning or consent and did he really believe the meticulous nation would treat him the same after that? He had seen what Germany had done; blindfolds and handcuffs and bondage was not the worst he could do.

Sometimes, when Germany didn't bother covering his eyes, Italy could see an unforgiving desperation in the blue eyes he thought he knew. Things were different now. But he deserved this; he could at least endure this for all the trouble he gave everyone and if this was restitution then so be it – because, still, he was with Germany, who could hurt and abuse him all he wanted, just so they were together.

Italy could not remember the last time he had fallen in love with someone like this before.

--

"Brother."

Denmark couldn't remember the last time he heard Norway call him brother like that before. But wars always brought the worst out in people. Not that he'd call that part of Norway 'bad', but it was unusual.

"Yes, kid brother?"

Norway, not much with words, pointed at his arm, where an armband hung around with a gold star. "What's that?"

Denmark looked down at his arm and shrugged. "Star of David. You know what it is."

"I know what it is, and I know what will happen to you if you let Germany see you in it."

Denmark laughed. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. But my boss was cool with wearing it and you know how he parades around these days. It's practically spitting in Germany's face."

"Did your boss really wear it?"

Denmark grinned mysteriously. "I don't know. But my people like to say he did, so he did, okay?"

Norway continued staring at the star. "Don't wear it," he murmured, reaching out to touch it briefly. "You can do other things to piss him off, but don't give him an excuse to hurt you."

Denmark turned, almost falling over himself in surprise. Not only had Norway been sitting down a distance away a moment ago and now he was right next to him, but he'd actually _touched_ him! It was a rare occasion. Ever since Norway had left his house, things had been different. Not that that really mattered to Denmark – after all, a favorite never falls out of favor.

"If I didn't know better, that was practically a confession of love, Nor!"

"You know better," Norway retorted, a bit of his sarcastic self coming to the surface. He didn't lean away when Denmark floundered about while turning and he didn't budge an inch as Denmark stared at him. "So what's with this sudden Semitic mania?"

"Germany's being a jerk!" Denmark pouted, looking childish. When Norway's expression asked him to continue, he crossed his arms, brushing against the shorter nation. "I mean, he has been since he decided to invade our vital regions…"

"Yours. And mine. Not ours."

"Fine. Whatever. But I tolerated him! Because I'm awesome! And awesome older siblings withstand their bratty little siblings. But he told me the other day that he was going to round up all the Jews and take them along. And I know he didn't mean giving them a nice cross country tour of Europe. And this is unacceptable. He can't just tell me what to do with my minorities. And I don't want to do anything with them anyway!" Anger flashed in his eyes for a moment before he smiled again at Norway. "So it's not happening."

"What were you planning, brother?"

"I'm not going to hand them over, obviously."

"Hmm." Norway turned away, walking away as Denmark silently lamented the loss of body heat. Still, the older nation watched as Norway wandered the living room, as if searching for something. Norway looked everything over, almost mindlessly, before stopping in front of a heavy cabinet sitting against the wall.

He kicked it, rattling it and hearing a muffled gasp behind it. Norway shot Denmark a panicked look before pushing almost effortlessly to show a small compartment behind the cabinet, holding a small family.

"I know you've got your people hiding people in their own private property, but in your own _house_ too?"

"I'm taking them to _Gilleleje_ tonight, Nor. Don't worry about me." Denmark's eyes, now void of the anger that had filled them before, danced with excitement. "I haven't always gotten along with Sweden, but the fact he's now a neutral idiot's actually a good thing. It's exciting, really. I sort of understand what America was talking about whenever he rants about freeing the slaves."

Norway glanced at the cowering family behind the cabinet and back at Denmark, who studied him. "Do you want to come with me?"

Norway shook his head. "I won't get involved. They're _your_ people and god knows I got my own to worry about."

Denmark shrugged. "Suit yourself. It was an open offer."

The cabinet was replaced back in its original position and Denmark saw Norway to the door. As the shorter nation's hand rested on the knob, he turned. "I like…what you're doing. It's crazy, but what do you do that's not?"

"Thanks, Nor. Coming from you, that's a lot."

Norway opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking for the better, and opened the door, disappearing into the street and out of sight.

--

_So what ails you, is what impales you. You are your own worst enemy._

--

To be continued

--

Note: Do you like?! A historical canon? I'm a fan of Franada, by the way. And let's face it; after Italy surrendered to the Allies, it didn't become neutral or anything. It was just a place to duke it out. You would feel bad for them too. Oh! And people wanted to read about Denmark, so here is some (unrealistic) fanservice. Oh the things I do for you. Review, please.


	14. Horseshoes and Handgrenades

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track 14 – Horseshoes and Handgrenades – Green Day

---

Fourteen – Horseshoes and Handgrenades

--

_Want you to slap me around, want you to knock me out._

--

Big Week had begun.

America, displaying the actual flying talent he had only bragged out, cackled as he flew over the aircraft production factory and dropped a bomb, the sound and force blowing debris back to Germany's face. The blonde watched as the plane circled around again, searching for another factory, standing still as the dust and metal around him smoldered.

Snipers were on the ready to fire, but there would be no use as long as a nation was doing the attack. One couldn't just expect to ground and destroy such a person. So Germany stared on at the blue overhead as England flew overhead, his face twisted in a grimace.

"God save the bloody Queen," he snarled and Germany raised a hand to shield his face from the blast.

They were cutting off the airways. Germany inhaled the smoke filling the air, barely coughing as it burned his lungs. "Fire," he said aimlessly, throwing a hand up. The bullets would carry the exasperation and frustration to the sides of the air force planes where they would stay embedded.

--

"Give me back my brother, you bastard."

Germany looked up, his gloves bloody as his men cleaned the bodies into one area and wiped up the excess of blood on the walls. He didn't know how Romano had passed the guards at the cave's entrance, but nations, he discovered, had powers like that.

His soldiers made a movement, but Germany waved them off, walking toward Romano with an almost expressionless face, harder than the stone walls around them. Romano was not as skilled at hiding his feelings; there was fierce anger in his eyes and he was quivering, his hand floating over the revolver around his waist.

"I don't think you're in a position to make such demands," Germany said, taking off his gloves and throwing them to the pile of bodies that was growing by the moment. Romano growled, his quick draw much better than the latter's – Germany found himself staring at a barrel of a gun in the moment it took him to blink.

"Give me back my brother, you heartless bastard."

Germany studied him, before a snort left his lips. "I'm surprised you haven't come to claim him back. With the way your people have been finding and executing my men, I would think you would have stormed my house by now."

Romano laughed deliriously, the sound echoing through the cave. The soldiers cleaning up the bodies looked uneasily at each other, but the apparent calm of their nation assured them no harm. "We both know that's impossible. So what if my Mafia has been doing a job on your whelp? I hardly feel sorry."

"You never liked me much," Germany mused, glancing back at the bodies of the men behind him.

"I didn't," Romano snapped, his hands completely still on the gun, never trembling like Italy's was whenever he held a revolver. "And I can't say I do now you've taken my boys and killed them like cattle."

"Thirty-three," Germany whispered, ice forming in his eyes. "Thirty-three of my men were killed. I think ten of you cowards for each life is enough."

Romano let out a shriek and opened fire. Germany stared on as the bullets whizzed past him and hit the soldiers behind him, body adding upon body. One officer, trembling as he stood out of range, quietly returned to his duty when Romano stopped, the click of the gun signaled the end of the brief rampage.

"I want my brother back. Stop taking out your failure on him! He had nothing to do with it!" When it was clear that Germany would not speak more of the subject, Romano turned to leave, but not before the same maniacal glint entered his eyes. "But if it makes a difference, it was nice feeling the blood of your assholes on my hands. I finished a lot of them myself." Shaking his head triumphantly, Romano strode out of the cave and Germany did not stop him. "Get out of Ardeatine before I make you, you son of a bitch!"

Presently, the soldier appeared at the blonde's elbow, saluting quickly. "The blood has been removed, sir."

Germany was staring at the empty space where Romano had been. "What's your name?"

"Erich Priebke, sir!"

Germany smirked, turning back and nodding. "Good work."

--

"I know this will not come as a shock to you, but the Fuhrer just kicked me out of the house."

Germany turned, glancing at Prussia before returning his attention to the paperwork in front of him. The satisfied grin and cocky stance his brother had taken had barely made him worry about the words that just left the albino's mouth. "What did you do this time?"

"Actually, I didn't do anything. This kid, Stauffenberg, tried to blow the boss up but fucked up big time. Of course, he's got to cause trouble by making this deboggle happen on my side of the lawn. So I've been giving the boot." Prussia waited for a reaction that never came. "I can't say I'm sorry. I didn't like living here. And now that the Fuhrer says he wants my aristocracy dead, I can't say I would stay if I had a choice."

"I'll have a talk with him."

"No, don't! I want to go. I can't stand it here. He's made it pretty clear he hates my guts. He's only got eyes for you. Ah! The burden of the unloved brother." Prussia shook his head in mock regret. "Maybe I'll bunk with Romano."

"If you've got nothing else to say, please wrap up your business here. I've got work to do."

"Of course. Anything for the favored brother of the house."

--

"Um, this is totally not cool."

It really was time to fight back, Poland reasoned. He was invaded, tortured, and made to watch as thousands of innocent victims were marched to his house and killed. Really, he should have done something by now, but it had taken a while to find the right outfit for such a momentous occasion.

But he'd gotten it, and the Warsaw Uprising was underway.

And only a few hours into it, he had already burnt one sleeve off his totally awesome coat.

So there he sat, in the middle of the street in the midst of a few bodies, sewing up his jacket with a needle and bits of thread he found. His people would be fine without him; he knew how things like this worked and his internal instinct reminded him his time to intervene was not yet. And anyway, it was time Germany get his hands full of Polish problems.

"Like, honestly. He could have, like, totally left me some thread."

The stitches were large and grotesque. He couldn't break Germany' nose wearing such things.

"The hero is here!" America had appeared out of nowhere, brandishing aid in the forms of food and medicine, standing and waiting to be praised. Poland gave him a skeptical glance.

"Is there, like, thread in that box somewhere?"

"Whatever would you need thread for? I'm here!" America threw his chin up, nearly dropping his help on the ground. "And anyway, it's a good thing I came and helped you, Poland. Russia's closing in and Germany wants to make things as troublesome as possible, so obviously I have to step in."

"I was completely fine myself," Poland grumbled, irritated about being interrupted.

There was a peppering of shots and America shouted good-naturedly as his planes were shot at overhead. "Germany, you douchebag, you!" he yelled with a grin on his face. "And Russia, we're supposed to be on the same team! No fair shooting at me!"

Poland really hoped America would not come and help the uprising, or they might be losing with a disadvantage. Fortunately for him, America had run off, obviously waiting for his moment to shine and take over in the spotlight. Poland was about to force the thought out of his mind when he noticed a spool of thread on the road where America had been.

"Like, I still don't like you at all," Poland sniffed, although he smiled as he reached for the thread.

--

"Now that Aachen was taken, little bro…" Prussia shrugged, reclining lazily in the couch in the sitting room. "I don't have much hope for our successes."

Germany studied his brother carefully, the weather hardened look on his face barely faltering. "You don't strike me as the one to give up easily, _Bruder_." Although Prussia had been expelled from the house, he was still part of the team and the Fuhrer had reluctantly let him visit.

"I'm not." Prussia rolled his eyes. "Awesome doesn't give up, as you put it so elegantly. But I'm just saying, you probably shouldn't be expecting anything wonderful. I know these things. The curtain's coming down soon." He checked his wrist although there was nothing on it. "I think you should let Italy go."

Germany stared at him, no outward sign of agitation. "He betrayed me," he said simply.

"Ah!" Prussia sighed loudly, dramatically. "This is why you're still so young, little bro. The world has heard that so many times already. You have to let it go. What was he supposed to do? His boss was already thrown away and his people were moving to the Allies' side."

"He could have stood out by himself."

Prussia smiled mysteriously. "You're selfish, _Deutschland_. I thought better of you. I thought I raised you better than that."

"What do you mean?"

Prussia flourished a finger. "Not to be a nosy older brother that pries into his little brother's love life, but I do like to irritate you about that. Don't think that since no one told it to you to your face that no one knew your torrid relationship you had with Italy. It took soap opera to a whole new level. Don't you think Italy wanted to stay with you? Why do you think he came with you instead of resisting? Honestly, I knew you were a wall when it came to emotional problems, but this is ridiculous."

There was a click and Prussia found himself at the receiving end of a gun. "Get out."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. No need to get all hasty. You're going to kick your awesome brother out? Don't kill the messenger!"

"Just get out."

Prussia opened his mouth but before any cocky remarks could come out, there was a pop and a smoldering bullet hole appeared in the cushion next to him. "Alright, alright, I'm leaving. I'm not wanted around these parts anyway. Especially since the stupid _Fuhrer_ glares at me whenever I pass him. Ag. I wish this was over with." He leapt over the back of the couch and headed to the door. "See you later, Italy!" he yelled, despite the fact that the nation was sleeping upstairs and couldn't hear him. "Fuck you, little brother!" he cackled as he slammed the door behind him.

--

It was cold, but Russia's winters had been colder. Germany felt his boots crunch in the snow beneath his feet but he had other things to think about than leaving tracks. His men skittered along the dark trees ahead. It was a rare chance to split the Allies this deep in his motherland and he had to believe that _Wacht am Rhein_ would succeed.

Hell, he would be lying if he said it was all he was focused on. It seemed snow and white had a strange effect on him, as whenever he was surrounded by them, his thoughts lingered on Italy. _Italy was never one to wake early and today was no exception. Germany willed himself not to watch the clock and before he could get up to forcibly shake the brunette awake, the golden honey eyes opened gently, the sleep dusted on them still lingering._

_His yawn was broken by a shrill of surprise. Since his holding had started, Germany was always gone in the mornings and he was left alone to spend the afternoons by himself. Italy looked up, surprise chasing the sleep away. "What…what's going on?"_

"_I'm letting you go. So go."_

_All signs of bondage were gone, and Italy could have easily wakened up in Germany's bed like before he joined the Allies. For all his obliviousness, he could tell the situation and left the bed to collapse in the blonde's arms. "It's not that time already," he murmured, his thin, bruised arms circling Germany's neck. "I can't leave you if they're coming. You have to come home to someone."_

_Germany tried to resist the urge to hold the trembling nation but hell, if he was releasing him, he may as well throw everything else away. "Why are you still here?" he asked, running his hand through Italy's hair and holding him close despite his inner modesty screaming protest against the latter's nakedness. "I've hurt you and you haven't run away yet."_

_Italy's laugh sounded almost like a cough. "Don't be silly, Germany! I love you, remember? If it's taken you this long to realize, what have I been doing?" He could feel the question vibrating through Germany's neck. "Yes, you've kept me here and did all sorts of things to me, and I thought it was time I fell out of love with you, but I didn't. I'm stupid, remember? I'm stupid, so I didn't, and I'm still here and…"_

The weather was bad, so he could hardly see America or even hear his stupid shouts through the snow, but then neither could they see him too. He could hear his men around him, shouting orders and shooting into the wind (could wind shift the paths of bullets? He had no idea) and the only thing he could think of was how Italy kissed him as he left, finally wearing clothes but kissing him like nothing had happened, leaning to him in the foyer and not giving a damn if the _Fuhrer_ was watching them in the wings.

"Can't you just accept that you've lost already?" America's voice was so close by that Germany wondered if he had just blanked out for a few hours. He couldn't see his men anymore; they had probably retreated without giving away their positions by calling for him. He looked around but he couldn't see the young nation anywhere. "I wish you'd just give up, Germany. I don't want to pick a bone with you. I just want Japan to know what he did wasn't okay. So get out of the way, yeah? Seriously."

"I can't do that," Germany called, backing in the direction of the retreating footprints. "I don't want to lose either."

America sighed, although the sound was faint. "We're gonna cross the Rhine, you know. England and France probably doesn't want me to tell you, but I'll say it anyway. We're gonna surround you and you're going to lose. So why make it go longer? Just start waving your white flag and it can all be over!"

With a growl, Germany unleashed a round into the trees around him. There was a surprised yelp and a flash of a brown bomber jacket before America's laugh rang through the clearing, sounding further and further away as he returned to the Allies camp.

--

_Demolition, self-destruction, want to annihilate this age of contradiction._

--

To Be Continued

Note: I'M SO EXCITED I love this chapter. I am very excited for this fic…I finished it yesterday. Hopefully the ending is adequate for you guys…I tried not to get too cliché. But cliché can be good sometimes. I'm gonna be too busy to breathe next week, but I may update early Monday and call it a day. But it's reaching its end, I don't know if I want to end this yet…! Anyway, thanks for reading and review, please.

Mafia Romano is SO win.


	15. The Static Age

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track 15 – The Static Age – Green Day

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Fifteen – The Static Age

--

_Can you hear the sound of the static noise, blasting out the stereo?_

--

It was getting hard to walk, much less stay upright. All he wanted to do was stay in his house, yet his duty to fight for his people made him stay in the middle of the warfare. Prussia was watching him carefully, neither fighting nor attacking. He could see America's face, shining through the fighting in triumph and before he could apply pressure on his heart to soothe the burning he felt, the Fuhrer found him and took him away.

Humans didn't know what it felt like for your capital to be under siege, but he'd had enough bosses to know their ignorance and Germany did not protest as the Fuhrer beckoned him to his bunker. The pain was starting to become sharp and white.

"I know I shouldn't be taking you from your people, _Herr Deutschland_," the Fuhrer said, anxiety and fear making his voice uneasy. "But I feel like you must be with me at this last hour."

That did not sound at all optimistic for the boss of a nation, but Germany would not make complaint; even a fool could see the end at this point. Careful to hide the way he had started limping, Germany followed the Fuhrer deeper into the bunker.

"I got married," the Fuhrer said suddenly as the two made their way through the darkened tunnel, the sounds of war muffled around them. Germany winced as a particularly loud blast shook his entire frame. He thought he could almost hear Prussia's rueful laugh, but he was sure he had left his brother at the surface.

But he had slunk away into the darkness, like a coward. He had to expect (hope) that Prussia had done the same.

By the Fuhrer's silence, Germany realized he was supposed to say something. "_Herzlichen Glückwunsch_," he said tiredly, wishing he had something to soothe the fire in his stomach.

"Not so," the Fuhrer chuckled anxiously, wiping his brow. "But you must meet her…pretty woman…her name is Eva Braun…very nice…"

"Why is a woman here?"

"I wanted her here." And that was final. Germany felt what was coming in his bones and grimaced as he felt them hurt again. He felt like yelling out a warning, but to whom and for what purpose, he couldn't say.

He wondered if he should have sent a telegram to Japan, but at this point, what would Japan have done?

He wondered if he should have sent for Italy, just as the Fuhrer had sent for his mistress-turned-wife, but what would Italy have done?

The Fuhrer showed Germany his wife, timidly and slowly as if there was a heavy weight on his shoulders. "Eva, this is _Herr Deutschland. _He is the reason we have been fighting all this time."

She smiled, small and light, and when Germany extended his hand to her small one, he found it wet and trembling. He didn't think it was entirely because of her surroundings. "It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I wish we could have known each other more."

"It is a national secret, the human existence of the nations," the Fuhrer said, a bit of pride in his voice for being included in such an inclusive group of people. "We can't just tell anyone."

"So I suppose the reason you introduced me means it really is over," Eva whispered. She really was trying to be strong, Germany saw, but her eyes were starting to mist over. "There's no hope, not for us…"

"Don't be silly, woman…_Herr Deutschland, _please have a seat…make yourself comfortable…"

The seat was a welcome thing. His knees were already giving way from the soreness that was digging at him. He sank down, wordless as the Fuhrer guided Eva to the bed. Fumbling with something in his pocket, he pulled out a pistol and a couple of pills. "Pick your poison, dear."

Eva stared at the arsenal in front of her. "One for each of us?"

"_Ja_…which one, darling?"

She stared at them for a moment more before her quaking fingers reached for the pistol. "It's a better ending for a leader," she reasoned to herself as her digits wrapped around the gun, "to end with a body for proper burial." She took a ragged breath. "Don't help me."

Germany kept his eyes open, although they burned to do so. He didn't fidget when some of her blood fell upon him, letting the red liquid seep onto his uniform.

The Fuhrer was now shaking, throwing a blanket over his dead wife. "Brave woman, brave," he said, now muttering to himself, apparently forgetting he was in audience of his beloved nation. "Brave…no way out…time…escape…"

He watched the Fuhrer gulp the pills of cyanide in his mouth when there was a particularly jolting crash and Germany squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry out. He tried not to think how he had left Italy when Rome was under attack. He tried not to think about how he had attacked other capitals, other hearts. He tried not to think of how a woman had just shot herself in front of him. He tried not to think about how many countless others he had commanded to death, just on the whim of a crazy boss.

A strangled sound escaped his mouth and when he opened his eyes again, the Fuhrer was nowhere to be seen.

--

When he came to again, Germany heard the incessant beeping of a heart monitor somewhere near his head. His eyes felt glued shut; but with a bit of effort, he managed to open them to mere slivers, the light reaching his retinas, which felt as sore as the rest of his body. He was aware of constraining bandages on his arms and legs and wondered how long he had been in this state.

Somewhere in heaven, Italy's face floated into view, bandaged and black-eyed, but still concerned. "Germany," a voice he almost could not recognize said. "Germany…are you awake?"

He thought he spoke, but Italy showed more anxiety, so he tried to clear his throat. "Where am I?"

Italy let out a sigh of relief and Germany felt a hand close around his, which was also heavily bandaged. He didn't think it was a good sign that he could barely feel his fingers, and it wasn't because Italy was squeezing them so hard. "You're in the hospital," Italy whispered, as if raising his voice would make the ceiling come crashing down. "They found you in the bunker, unconscious. A lot of your men have surrendered. It's over. V-E Day came and past and you were still out."

"There…there was a will," Germany croaked, shifting his head so he could look at Italy properly. "The Fuhrer left it…what about it?"

"Yes…Dönitz and Goebbels, right? Well…they found Goebbels's body soon after they found you. It's over. It's done."

Germany closed his eyes again and felt Italy stiffen next to him, but he was not about to drop off again. Not when this news had reached his ears. "Where's my brother?"

Italy smiled ruefully. "House arrest. He was well enough to make it back to the house. I didn't tell you…me and my brother are also under house arrest! The Allies have been watching over us so we don't get up to no good. I heard they're planning on cutting you up. I'm trying not to let that happen. We can't get any visitors, but I asked nicely and America said I could see you for a few because of good behavior." Germany watched silently as Italy brought his hand up to his mouth and kissed each of the bandaged fingers. "Russia's showing interest in your brother, Germany. America and England think they can salvage you. Salvage! Like you had broken apart during the War."

Germany let out a dry cough.

"It wasn't bad. We did what we had to. Anyone would have felt the same. But we're bad guys, Germany. Bad guys because we fought for ourselves. We hurt everyone and we hurt each other, but we're bad guys. Why don't they see it from our point of view?" Tears were streaming from Italy's face and Germany let him cry; there were times when tears were necessary. "We weren't happy so we fought. Why does that make us bad? England fought a lot back in the day and also invaded vital regions, but no one calls him bad. America took over his whole continent with Canada and no one calls them bad. Yes, we did all sorts of horrible things and we killed a lot of people and now everyone cringes when we talk about the Axis Powers. I don't want people to look at me funny anymore. We thought we were right. Maybe we were right. I don't know anymore."

"Our people say it's bad," Germany said, his voice hoarse. "The world says we're bad. We're outnumbered. Clearly, there has to be some truth in that."

"Even I can't tell. A part of me says I was wrong, but a part of me says I was right. They're going to map out our futures for us. Like bad kids. We're going through rehabilitation. Like we were bad." Italy smiled thinly. "America's got his eyes on Japan. I'm scared. I don't want Japan to get hurt, but if he doesn't lose, this War's technically not over."

There was a sharp rap on the door and Germany struggled to look in its direction. America's silhouette lingered at the door for a moment before disappearing. Italy quickly wiped his eyes and gave Germany's hand a quick squeeze.

"I've got to go…I'm sorry, I wanted to stay. I won't do anything bad! But America says we have to stay at our houses until Japan falls. I hope you get better. I hope we can all be friends ago. I love you! Yes, I'm coming, America!" With a quick brush of his lips on a spot too heavily bandaged on Germany's face for him to feel the gesture, Italy lingered briefly before disappearing and Germany frankly did not have the strength to see him go.

--

Romano hated being watched, especially by such a watcher as the infamous voyeur France. Of course, he considered himself safe, as France was still badly injured and had only just started recovering and had more pressing issues to think about than sex, but nevertheless, he could feel the blue eyes studying him, contorting him to someone he was not.

"What happened to you, Romano?"

At first, Romano was tempted not to answer. It would give him the upper hand, not divulging information. But it also made him look like a child, something he was determined not to do. He was not going to sulk because he lost. "What shit are you spouting now?"

"You used to be such a good kid. Fine, you swore all the time and you didn't do anything, but you were generally a good kid. Spain talked about you all the time. You were his cute little tomato he went home to after conquests."

"Yuck. Please don't tell me that. I've puked enough in the past few years."

"It's true. You were actually well-behaved, comparatively. You and your brother. I wouldn't have minded taking you with me, if Spain wasn't so persistent on keeping you."

"Don't talk about us like that. The time when you could all push us around is over. I though we showed you that."

"You did. But why would you take it to such a level?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Romano shouted, turning on him. It was his fault; France started it. Turning on the nonchalant nation sitting and watching him on his own couch, in his own damn house, Romano had enough of silence. "Because maybe you've pushed us around and thought we couldn't do anything. You didn't throw us a fucking bone, did you? It never occurred to the big guys to think that maybe, yeah, some of us littler nations did our jobs and helped you last time we had a huge war. But no; because Italy and I have never quite proved ourselves, you thought we would never change and I don't know about you, but I can't keep all those centuries of that together and not snap eventually."

France watched him for a moment, no troubled emotion crossing his face. "Spain talks about you all the time still."

Romano turned away, staring out the window. He was done speaking.

"I visited him a few days ago. He asked about you. He wanted to come over, but we've got strict house arrest policies with you rogues. I warned him not to sneak over or his ass would be on the line."

Romano wanted to leave, to give France the disrespect of watching his retreating figure, but his legs would not move.

"It was always like this. He's loved you since the Bourbons, you know. All this time. He was heartbroken when you left him and he came to us (Prussia and himself were implied) when you were independent and asked us how he should approach you. It took him a couple of weeks to muster up the courage to say hi to you during the World Conferences. But you never knew.

"He always liked to talk about Italy because he could talk freely about the subject. When it came to you, he always got tongue-tied and went off on tangents. He showed us his battle scars when you attacked him. He told us how he would eventually win your favors but they always failed. Apparently. He told me you told him you loved him. It was about damn time."

The door opened and Italy stumbled in, tripping over the hall carpet with his cast. "I'm home!" he called cheerfully. America stuck his head in.

"France! You want me to take your post now, or can you handle a couple more hours?"

"I'm fine."

"Alright! See you later, chums! I'm off to pay a visit to Japan." With the mention of the Asian island, America's voice lowered slightly, threateningly, and he left before the mood could linger in the air. Italy hobbled into the kitchen, where Romano was sitting and France was watching him from the living room.

"Brother? Are you alright?" Stepping in front of France's line of view, Italy waited until Romano shook his head, the movement thick with tears. "What did you do to him?" Italy demanded, marching up to France and grabbing his collar with his good hand. "Isn't it enough? You've bullied us enough! It's over, okay?"

"I didn't do anything. I just told him the truth."

"I'm going to bed." Because there was nothing else to do under house arrest but eat, sleep, and think. Italy watched as Romano made his way to the stairs and disappeared by himself. Letting France go, Italy watched his brother before seeing him in his mind's eye, crawling under the covers and curling up, no longer lying straight and proud.

Italy sighed. He was all cried out.

--

_I can't see a thing in the video, I can't hear a sound from the radio._

--

Note: Um…fall of Germany, I hope I did it justice. I read somewhere that they found a skull with a bullet hole in Hitler's bunker but it was that of a woman's…did Hitler die? No one actually knows! Ha ha, so that's my take on it, at least. More angsting. Hopefully the scant amount of fluff and the last fluff chapter will make you feel somewhat good. I survived my week. I can do anything. Review, please.


	16. 21 Guns

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track 16 - 21 Guns - Green Day

**---**

Sixteen – Twenty-One Guns

--

_Do you know what's worth fighting for when it's not worth dying for?_

--

Silence. White silence. Japan woke to utter silence, devoid of even the birds outside. It was strange. He slipped into his home slippers and pitter-pattered down the hallway, checking for his cats. Surely they would be slinking around, mewing when he came by. But he couldn't find any of them.

The planes were supposed to be gone. So that's why the sound was sucked out, sucked out like marrow.

It was still early morning. Japan slipped into something comfortable and did the morning exercises as he did every morning; it wouldn't do to be frail and brittle-boned at his age. There was something wrong. He didn't know what, but there was something wrong.

He couldn't shake it. Whatever it was, he had to be prepared. He was still in a war, after all. He'd gotten wind that Germany had fallen, so surely they would turn to him. But they had continents and seas to cross, which he would definitely have spotted them before they could make contact.

Something called to him from Hiroshima, and a sense of calm made him leave the very heart of his land. Things would be okay in Tokyo that day. He could feel it.

People were just starting to make their way to work. Japan nodded cordially to the men and women who passed him by, feeling unease as he kept walking. There was something. Something was coming, but what that something was, he couldn't pinpoint.

Clear skies. Maybe could be more ideal.

Dark shadows. Silver lining on the clouds. A passenger plane.

The sound. The sound of falling. The sound of collapse. The sound of ruin.

--

He had had a choice. To drop it or not. Little Boy and Fat Man. It was there. It was ready, should he choose that path. His people had created it, proposed it, encouraged it. And America had the last say.

It was agonizing for his boss, too. To drop it would mean the decimation of thousands of Japanese. Victory. Revenge. Total annihilation of the area. It would be the right thing to do. It would be the wrong thing to do. To attack a nation like that was unprecedented. But even Truman agreed it would be the best route: to destroy and cause a blow in Japan's apparently immeasurable ego.

America sat alone, in the dark, curtain drawn office he lived in, refusing his boss or English or France or anyone. He had to think it through. He had waited for this day since Pearl Harbor, but Japan had not always been a mean person. It was a war. It was a war, and war made nations do crazy things.

Did that justify Japan attacking him? Did it justify attacking Japan?

Suppose it didn't work or go as planned?

Suppose it did? Nuclear war was something he was still new at. Radiation, he had heard of, but Japan was too far away to have the radiation hit his shores. But say China felt it too? China was a friend. A battered friend, but a friend. Or Russia? Russia and he never quite got along too well, but Russia could handle it.

Japan was refusing to fall. Okinawa proved that; America watched as Japan's people flew and collided with his; _kamikaze_ efforts. The deaths of thousands. The civilians who refused to give in.

Japan had been his friend. He couldn't attack his friend.

But Japan attacked him.

But if he dropped it, would they ever be friends again? Did heroes put friends before justice? Would he be a hero with these many deaths under his belt? Do it – and avenge himself. Listen to the people's voices. Patriotism. Death?

"Do it."

--

Light. Dark.

Cold. Hot.

Flying? Falling.

Pain. Peace.

Fragments.

--

China heard the explosion, felt the shaking, heard his little brother's cries and cried for him, for himself, for his broken family.

--

Silence. Once more. Silence.

But he could move. Of course. He was a nation. The heart was untouched. But it was fire. Fire.

Japan found himself under rubble. With some miraculous strength, he found he could move. Reach out…touch the stone on top of him. There was light. The world had not yet ended. His hands could move, and they pawed out a hole for him to slip out of.

He stumbled. His clothes were charred, completely decimated, but he couldn't tell between cloth and skin anymore. His hands were darkened and his face sooty. There were a few citizens screaming elsewhere. There was someone, bloody and dying, crying out and holding out a child for someone to save. It was dead.

He was aware he was breathing in deadly air, but he was a nation.

Somewhere close to him, there was a flash of light; then fire.

Just yellow. And red. And blood. Japan shook his head to clear it and opened his eyes again. More yellow, red.

Burns. Limbs. Hair. Clothes. The dead, and the ones who wished to be dead.

He wanted to run, but to where? He was a nation. He couldn't abandon his people. He wanted to scream, feeling the tug he felt earlier, pulling him toward Nagasaki. Not again…he couldn't go through this again.

But he was a nation. And a nation had to be there for its fall.

--

The second time. Just.

Waves. Heat and light.

Fire.

Soot shadows, plastered on walls.

No more screams.

When Japan woke and ran his hands through his hair and found it was starting to fall out, he staggered outside. The sun shone down, like it was okay. It was always okay. To cry. Because nationhood was all about blood, sweat, and tears.

--

"Japan. So good to see you! Guess what? I want to go to war with you!"

Japan could barely have time to himself to lick his wounds and Russia was at his door, smiling. The nation had injuries and bruises still not healed, but he was ready. Any battle could end in disaster. Japan knew Russia still remembered 1905, and would never forget it. The shame of a large nation, losing to an island.

"It couldn't wait?" Japan's voice was raspy. He was sore all over and he had vomited more than he'd liked to remember in the past few days, and the urge was creeping up his throat.

"Of course not! When we go to war, it must be as soon as possible! After all, you did attack America rather nicely, didn't you? That couldn't wait either!" Russia smiled. "Your friends in the West put up a decent fight, but I admit Germany was never a threat to me."

"Is that so." Because talking made the feeling go away, and he couldn't just ask Russia to leave, but it was coming back, itching up his throat and upsetting his stomach. He clamped his lips shut.

"Of course! Now I might be having a house partner! The other Allies say I might have Prussia for keeps! Now I can't help but think if we had you in our war spoils, you might be one with me too. I'm much closer you know. I don't think America wants you anymore. You're damaged goods."

Japan wanted to say a word of warning, but when he opened his mouth, he doubled over and retched in front of Russia.

"I say," Russia sniffed, stepping back. "Radiation poisoning is not pleasant. Well, I'll relay your message to America. You can take more."

"No. Don't." The bitter taste returned to his mouth, along with the shame. "I can't. I'm much too old. That's it. I'm done."

Russia's smile was too sadistic. "Excuse me? I couldn't hear you. Please speak up, Japan. I am also not very familiar with your accent so perhaps…"

"I surrender! You hear that? America? I give!" This wouldn't have happened if he didn't get out of isolation. The world was a scary place. The burns would leave nasty scars. He was barely presentable to the other nations. If they held a conference, he couldn't imagine how he could attend without looking awful.

Russia was silent, and the look behind the scarf was now apathetic. "I hear you," he said quietly. "And now it's over."

--

With the shaky peace, Japan could go and get proper treatment. It would take time, but he would get better. The burns and radiation in the air would go away soon. Japan stared up at the ceiling, one eye bandaged heavily, the other foggy at times.

Italy cried when he saw him. Just held his burned hand and cried five blissful minutes of just sadness.

Romano had come with him. He was closer to the heart, and Japan saw the older brother had been pretty battered as well. They met eyes and there was a moment of pure understanding, crime and punishment.

He was tired.

Germany had come too, later. Because it was only fit for the blonde nation to come and say, "It was nice doing business with you."

"Likewise," Japan said, remembering his manners and wishing he could raise his hand and shake Germany's. But he was still a hot item – still had the remnants of radiation.

"You think this is bad!" Prussia bragged, his head heavily bandaged and one foot in a brace. "You should have seen me centuries ago, Japan. Really! Loads of scars. Loads! Lots of close calls. Near beheadings. We don't fight like we used to."

"We don't," Japan murmured.

Once, China had just watched him from the door. Japan didn't want to see. He couldn't stand pity.

Once, when they thought he was asleep, he heard America come into the hospital room. There was just silence, other than the momentary beeping and the soft chatter outside. He was not well versed in English, but America could have said anything. "Serves you right." "Now you know." "We won." "Sorry." Hardly.

"I understand now. Maybe you do have to do something like this to really know."

--

_Did you stand too close to the fire, like a liar looking for forgiveness from the start?_

--

to be continued

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Note: Please understand that there is SO much WW2 history and so little room in this fic to cram it all down. So please know that I am not saying this is all that happened, but I just didn't have room to fit every single battle down and I know I missed a ton. I just had to do some collective picking and choosing. Please don't think I am spitting upon the things I didn't mention. Also, as I am not a professional historian, I may have gotten some facts wrong. I hope I did the Japan bombings justice now. Ooh. Review, please.


	17. American Eulogy

**Disclaimer: : The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track 17 – American Eulogy – Green Day

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Seventeen – American Eulogy (Mass Hysteria/Modern World)

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_Beating into the hearts of the fanatics and the neighborhood's a loaded gun._

--

It was the World Conference Room, but it had turned into a court room. The round table had been momentarily displaced in an adjoining room and seats had been set up from the very back to a few feet from the front of the room. There, a long table had been set up, like some sort of judging platform. The Allies were just settling.

"Hello, you fat Commie bastard!" America said cheerfully as Russia walked by.

"It's nice to see you well, you capitalist manchild," Russia replied, just as skillfully. He was still grinning as he sat at the far end of the table, away from America and next to China, who looked like he was too tired to be there. France sat in the middle, making sure he didn't look like a war-ravaged nation; which of course, he was.

"Don't make things difficult," England chastised, sinking to the seat next to America. He was glad to have a barrier between him and France, although he wondered if it would be better to sit next to that frog than America, who was becoming rather difficult with Russia as of late.

"Order!" America called, oblivious to the look England gave him. "So the court of awesome and heroes has begun! I think everyone who matters is here." He looked out briefly, satisfied to see the chairs filled with anxious-looking nations. Everyone was looking particularly injured today, of course, save the neutral nations who only looked slightly scruffed up. It was a war no one was really able to escape.

"Today, for new business, we're here to give the verdict for the Axis nations. Bring 'em in."

The door to the side of the room opened and there was a hushed murmur in the audience as Romano came in first, holding his head high like this whole thing wasn't a problem, his hands bound because of course, you can stop an Italian in his tracks if you stop his hands. Italy came stumbling in after him, looking nervously out at the crowd and whimpering as he came to a stop next to his twin. Germany walked out slowly, one arm broken and the other handcuffed to Prussia, who was hobbling in on his one good leg. Last came Japan, who had to be helped in by Switzerland. Both his eyes were hidden behind bandages, although he seemed able enough to stand a short meeting.

So there they stood, in front of the Allies: Romano, staring out the window distractedly, Italy already starting to sob silently, Germany trying to act professional, Prussia whispering to Japan about support and Japan just staring ahead in darkness. The room had fallen deathly silent.

America broke it first, clearing his throat. "Well. We have the perpetrators: Italy, Germany, and Japan. Do the three…well, five of you agree to the charges against you? They include disturbing the peace, homicide of a couple millions of people, and general sense of un-awesome?"

"That's not cool," Prussia grumbled, leaning on his crutch.

"Yes," Germany said, speaking for all of them, since Romano seemed determinedly distanced and Italy was quivering.

"This is for the record," America said, smiling apologetically. "Not to open closed wounds, but I've got to read the history of this ordeal. In 1939, despite numerous appeasements, Germany (and in effect, Prussia, you too) invaded Poland's vital regions. Not to mention Japan had attacked China in the previous years as well. Other shenanigans of Germany's involves attacking both France and England. Along the way, Italy (and Romano too) joined him to cause more warfare. Japan attacks me for no good reason and joins the two in the Axis Powers. You three (five, really) cause basic chaos and invasions of vital regions of many of the nations present here today. Of course, since we're heroes, we fought back. Normandy, Midway, blah, blah…Hiroshima, Nagasaki…and we won. Does everyone agree on this?"

The Axis were completely silent and France squirmed slightly. "Alright! So now, of course, we need some moments of truth! Now's the time for punishment!

Romano willed everything that passed through his ears as white noise, trying to look as dignified as any nation with his hands bound, bandages around head, and general shame could look. He knew he could hear some hissing behind him, so he kept his eyes on God, staring outside through the window at the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar face toward the back of the room, green eyes hidden behind the brim of a Fedora, but the black curls gave him away. He wasn't turned so he couldn't tell for sure, but he knew Spain was staring at him. Romano faced forward again.

Italy sniffed, his hands clasped together in prayer. He didn't pray _nearly_ as much as Romano, but still, he was a child of God (a nation of God's, really) and he pleaded that perhaps they could be forgiven, because God was a forgiving kind of person (thing?). _Oh Lord, oh grandpa Rome, please help us get through this, please protect me and Romano and Germany and Prussia and Japan!_

Germany stared at a space above France's head, his face as expressionless as it had been after they were ushered toward the building for this hearing. He felt Prussia tug at the handcuff and the dull click of metal on metal. He could only see out of one eye; the other had been injured during the fall of Berlin. Outside, he didn't look like a piece of work, but if he shed the coat, the bandages stretched from one side of his body to the other. His sides were throbbing from just standing, but he wouldn't show it. He felt Italy shift next to him.

Prussia yawned, leaning toward Japan again. He was so surprised the Asian island was there; the radiation poisoning's effects weren't all gone yet and yet Japan was standing next to him like nothing was amiss. His leg was stinging and he leaned against the crutch again. "Oy," he whispered. "Japan. Do you feel okay? It's okay; no one would think you were less awesome if you leaned against me. I've gone through much worse; this is nothing."

"Thank you, Prussia-san," Japan whispered back, his lips barely moving. "But you can barely stand yourself and I'm fine." He could see nothing; bandages firmly over his eyes, and the white over his head hid the fact that he was almost done losing all his hair. He would recover, though; the sick phases were over and his body was starting to cope again. He would not be pitied; he would not want China to show mercy, especially when he didn't. And he especially didn't want to appear as if America really did hurt him all too bad; he was the strong brother – not someone he'd want Korea or Hong Kong or Taiwan or Vietnam or anyone to look wobbly in front of the _world_.

England shuffled his papers, slightly irritated at America's satisfied tone. Dignified gentlemen did not flaunt their victories. As much as he enjoyed being the victors, he disliked more looking at five defeated messes of nations; couldn't America just deliver the conditions they had all penned up and be done with the problem? Even the watching nations were growing restless.

France bit his lip, staring at Prussia. They used to be friends. Not the best of friends, of course, but they were close friends still the same. He put up with Prussia's fanatic explorations and Prussia put up with his flirtatious antics. He noticed Spain in the back, watching Romano. He supposed they all had their reasons for being there. For an instance, he caught Canada's eye; his former colony sitting in the front. Shy blue eyes met his before turning back to the accused.

China was poor. He was hurt and he was weak and he was poor. It didn't always happen like this; he used to be powerful and in control of himself. Now that the West had come knocking on his door, and he let them in, this had happened. He wasn't necessarily complaining – after all, his people didn't seem too put out by the progress, but now he was sitting and watching one of his precious brothers be put on trial; not to mention that after this whole thing was over, he had to go back to his people and put things in order again. These things took time.

Russia was not a fan of America. Yes, they had allied for the sake of ending the whole war, but he was not a fan. Not one at all. America and the rest of the capitalist nations thought that since they outnumbered him, they could have dibs to everything. They thought they could just swoop in and take the nations he had liberated from Germany's dirty hands and take them away. Land was money. And they called him communist. Like capitalism wasn't set for damnation in the end. He wouldn't complain. America would see his faults eventually.

"Italies," America said clearly, dense but not dense enough to feel the electricity crackling in the air. "You two have been dealt with when you surrendered. We hope you will honor your promises. We will be watching." America smiled amiably. Italy looked at him, but in truth, he was staring at the space above his head. Romano pretended not to hear.

"Germany and Prussia…well, didn't you two give us a lot of trouble. Starting the whole thing to begin with! But we've got it settled. Germany, you will be under me, England, and France. I hope you're excited, cause I am!

"Prussia, you will be under Russia, along with Poland, Hungary, et cetera, et cetera…"

Poland sputtered dramatically from the front row but didn't say any more. Hungary dipped her head, sneaking peeks at Italy, who was looking rather antsy.

"Russia?" Prussia exploded, thrashing more than necessary so he nearly fell over. "Man, I'd rather listen to your stupid hero stories than him any day!" He gestured rudely at Russia, who smiled rather cordially.

"We feel that splitting the two of you up will…prevent another disaster like this from happening," America said smugly. Prussia made a face and leaned on his crutch sour faced.

"Japan." There was a mixture of triumph and revulsion and forced apathy in America's voice. England shifted slightly in his seat. "We feel…hell, no, _I _feel I need to take responsibility for your actions." For a second, America looked as if he tasted something bitter. "So it was decided that I will take control of you, while Russia gets Sakhalin and Kuril. As for Korea, we…" America's face twitched again in obvious dislike. "We…as in Russia and I…will be taking order in the northern and southern sections. But of course, neutrality is best. No…_hmm_…deviations from the norm." At this point, America looked pointedly at Russia. "Russia…or dare I say…Soviet Union?"

Russia grinned at him frostily. "Of course not. The same goes to you, America."

"Well then! All issues addressed and appropriate action has been done. This World war is now officially over! Thank you for your time!" Slapping the papers down on the table, the room erupted in noise.

"It could have been worse," France heard England mutter, watching the island collect his papers as America leapt down for a chat with Canada. The Italies were lingering around, attempting to shift into the shadows. Germany and Prussia had been told to stay put until their respective new powers came to collect them. Japan had been shown back to the hospital, where he would be soon sent to America's. "We've been through worse."

"Do you think we handled it right?" France asked. England glanced at him with cold eyes, turning back to America and the rest of the restless crowd.

"Who knows? We always find out our mistakes late." The British nation turned to Russia, who looked like he was counting nations; nations under him now. "But I don't like what's happening between our…friend group, shall we say."

"You can say that again, Iggy. But don't get caught up." Before he could be reprimanded by England, France leapt down toward America and Canada.

"That went well!" America cheered. "I think I got 'em all worked up today!"

"You did," France said, biting back any false praise or stern explanations. Now was not the time. "What is your game plan, America?"

"Well, obviously, have more fun with the new club! The United Nations. Doesn't that sound so cool? I bet loads of nations will just line up to be part of it!" America grinned. "I feel like starting a new club. NATO. North Atlantic Treaty Organization. You can join. But Russia can't. He said the Marshall Plan wasn't good. Which is lies, 'cause my men came up with it. Can't let that…Soviet influence spread, you know?" America whispered this last part, although not very offhandedly. Russia glanced toward them.

"So Belgium and Canada said they wanted to join!" America said loudly. Canada cringed. "So you in, France?"

"We'll see," France said. "And if you don't mind…may I have a word with Canada? Alone?"

"Whoa, whoa," America said, grabbing Canada's arm protectively. "You can't do that sort of stuff with my brother."

"It's entirely platonic, I assure you," France said tiredly.

America agreed, but only when England came to have a word with the nation. France politely guided Canada to the hall. "I never got to properly thank you, Canada. For all your help. You weren't up there with us today even though you participated."

Canada smiled placidly. "A lot of nations helped too, and a lot of nations hurt too. I don't mind being a minor player."

"It'll be nice working with you again. If I join this NATO thing your brother's so enthusiastic about."

"Maybe." Canada stared at him. "Is there something else you'd like to say?"

"Not say, in other words." France quickly kissed Canada's forehead, making the latter nation blush widely. "Not entirely platonic, I guess. I lied." He chuckled as Canada tried to find words and waved his hand. "It's not over yet, Canada. I can feel it. Let's get ready for this thing."

--

Some things looked up. Tired of the whole war problem, colonizers pulled out and gave small nations independence. Israel appeared out of nowhere and guided his people. India shook herself free of England and breathed a sigh of relief.

China found himself with a handful of angry people on two sides; helplessly, he watched them fight for control of his house, and when he woke up one day, he found his house decorated with red and a new national order. He found a new boss waiting for him, responding to the name Mao. Taiwan called him up a few days afterwards, imploring about some runaways in her house. He figured with the bloodlust against the nationalists, she could keep them.

North Korea and South Korea split; again China found himself on the same side of Russia (China learned that if he inched away enough, he could stop feeling so anxious). America only had eyes for Russia, though, and that whole thing escalated in a war in itself.

That was just a blip in the stage, which had been set in a duel between Russia and America, affectionately dubbed the Cold War after America had shouted, "No wonder you're cracked in the head; it's so goddamn cold at your house!" Normally, such banter didn't cause wars, but he, England, and France, had decided that Germany had enough and even introduced new money. That was just a whole new threat and Germany found himself blockaded.

"This isn't good," Germany muttered, although America and England dropped provisions to him. He hadn't heard anything from Prussia for a while, and that was something.

"West." Prussia had somehow slipped in through a window or something but Germany awoke one night to see his brother in his room. A part of him remembered the warmth Italy left his bed, but that was history now. "Can I hide here?"

"For what?" Germany asked incredulously, shocked at Prussia's presence and the fact that his brother looked badly malnourished and beaten.

"It's…Russia's not the greatest at handling nations," Prussia admitted. "Now can I just…like, stay under your bed or something? I'm awesome, but I don't want to see that pipe anymore."

Of course, Russia found him the next morning and dragged him off. That very afternoon, Germany found his access to his brother's house blocked by an enormous, well-guarded wall. It split down the heart.

"Fucking Warsaw," America muttered, quickly adding, "Not you, Poland," when the nation walked past him in the Conference building. The European nation stuck out his lip and ignored him. Warsaw Treaty, he meant. He thought he was sticking it with NATO but Russia had gotten cheeky. Not to mention he just had a _talk_ with Cuba after he got wind that Russia had just put nukes on (Central) American soil. That stuff was sabotage.

"You got no right trying to invade," Cuba had shouted. "Just 'cause I accepted Russia's help and decided I didn't want your face in my people's lands doesn't mean you can just pull a Bay of Pigs whenever you feel like it. And don't think for a second I was 'cool' with you butting in and telling me if I can keep nukes on my soil. Just fuck off!"

"Better dead than red," America muttered. England had only rolled his eyes when America had brought up the subject but he knew. He knew it was dangerous. It could spread and make more Russias. And no one needed more Russias.

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_I am a nation without bureaucratic ties, deny the allegations as it's written fucking lies!_

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to be continued

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Note: Seriously, guys. I cannot apologize enough for the lack of historical accuracy. I have tried to condense the ending of World War 2 and I hope no one is offended. I did not purposely leave things out. Also, I was not going to get into the whole Cold War front. Someone else can write that. One more chapter, and it takes place in the contemporary world! Yay, no more history! FLUFF! Get excited, guys! Review, please!


	18. See the Light

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: Track 18 – See the Light – Green Day

Eighteen – See the Light

_Well, I just wanna see the light and I need to know what's worth the fight._

Vietnam had made America look like an idiot. Likewise, Afghanistan made Russia look like a fool. As this rivalry went on, things were thrown into space, nuclear weapons were created, and the world moved forward as the two nations bickered. While movies ridiculing Russia were created, America also noticed a bunch of his youth protesting.

He remembered when California was a place where gold resided, but now it appeared that people sifted for peace as well. He watched the Berkeley kids form the Free Speech Movement. Protesting was something people did well; as of course he knew. Nations were built upon these sort of things.

Speaking of which, nations under Russia weren't taking his business anymore (as America had already foreseen, he thought smugly) and were becoming independent. As he lost control of so many under him, the part of the Russia who dyed his hair red and called himself the USSR eventually withered away, almost done in by its last boss Gorbachev. Gorbachev, apparently having a change of heart, attempted to soothe the rivalry between America and Russia.

Poland benefited from this. As he loudly proclaimed, "Like, I totally had this coming! Ya'll don't know how I, like, totally went through yucky hell to get to this point, ya'll owe me!" Bulgaria and Hungary followed suit, shaking themselves free of Russia's house and staring on bits and pieces of their own.

Prussia found himself irritatedly bothered by his own boss, still. "Stalin was awesome," Honecker insisted.

"No, man. He wasn't. At all." Prussia grumbled, staring out the window at the enormous wall that was still a source of all his annoyances. It was bothersome that his people would prefer to be with his brother, but in all circumstances, he supposed he would too.

So when Honecker yelled for him when his own friends pulled him from power, Prussia pretended he couldn't hear anything and decided to go for a stroll.

Things dominoed from there; seized by the awesome that Prussia radiated, his people tore the wall apart and swarmed into both sectors, greeting long lost loved ones and seeing family. Prussia had eagerly leapt over the stone wall and was trying to find Germany. When he'd finally spotted his blonde brother, he started toward him, only to notice that Italy was next to him, looking up at him with an intimate smile on his face.

Well, Italy was okay, but this wasn't so awesome.

"It's so fun to celebrate alone!" Prussia griped, following a bunch of people into a bar and pretending he hadn't just suffered through decades of abuse; he was just another guy downing a few beers, singing intoxicated songs, and talking loudly of lost (vital regions) loves.

Russia was sitting alone. Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia had taken all their belongings and went their separate ways. His boss was losing control of his house. Things were changing. Sighing heavily, he tried to remember when he only dreamed of sunflowers. This whole war thing was such a bother.

"Hey, commie." Russia looked up, a skeptical expression crossing his face as America walked up. "Well, I can't really call you on that, I guess. China's cool. So it's Russia again? No more 'Soviet Union' business?"

"No," Russia said, absentmindedly pulling at a few strands of his hair that were growing out of the red it used to be.

"Hey, no big. These sort of things happen all the time." America took a seat next to him on the doorstep. "Rebellions and crazy people. It's completely normal."

"I don't want to be your friend yet, America."

"Jumping to conclusions! What made you think I wanted us to be chums in the first place? I still can't stand you. But I was thinking. Now that Germany's finally got his act together. And your underlings are leaving you. It's not fair to just trudge on alone, huh? So, me, being the hero, will offer my helping hand to you. Let's just be people on the same sphere. We've coexisted for ages before this." America grinned, cordially with only a slight sense of genuineness.

Russia stared at America's outstretched hand. "You mean a truce?"

"Yeah, I guess. For the time being. If you'll stop being annoying."

"If you'll stop being capitalist."

"If you won't nuke me."

"If you realize that you're just an egotistical child that deserves no one's love."

"If you finally know that your house is only so big because no one wants to live in this wasteland." America shrugged. "Truce?"

Russia stared at him, then at his own hand, then back to America. "Do you have sunflowers at your place?"

"I'm sure we can arrange for that."

"Alright then." Russia reached over and grabbed America's hand; the latter being the only one who could truly return his strong handshake. "Truce."

It had been a difficult century. So many bothersome events and desires to crush certain vital regions. So when the millennium and the promise of a new age dawned, Italy decided to be best friends and threw a whole new year party at his house. No one was excluded, not newly independent regions like Hong Kong, nor previous rabble-rousers. Just the world was invited to have some fun and make enough memories to make sure the twentieth century wasn't a complete failure.

Italy was there to greet everyone at the door, while Romano stood in the background, watching them come in, making sure they wiped their feet on the doormat (and making sure perverted France didn't grope his brother). The early guests, Austria and Hungary, made themselves quite at home and the rest of the nations trickled in.

"It's great you've having this thing!" America yelled as he tromped in, ignoring Romano's order for him to leave his shoes at the door. "Seriously, I'm looking forward to everything!" England followed, shoving a neatly wrapped box of scones (which Italy chucked out the door when England wasn't looking) into their hands and grumbling at America as they walked deeper into the foyer.

Portugal came next, her dark eyes sparkling as she turned and pulled her brother into the house. Spain looked awkward as he greeted Italy briefly before catching Romano's eyes. They hadn't talked much since the end of the War. Pushing him forward, Portugal giggled. "Go on, brother. Go talk to him!"

Spain stumbled forward, catching himself and grinning sheepishly. "So they say we should talk…"

"Oh, come with me you stupid idiot." Grabbing his hand, Romano led the older nation away as Portugal and Italy exchanged knowing looks before Italy turned to greet France, who had taken that lapse of Romano's watch to arrive. Romano pulled Spain upstairs, where it was still quiet and no one had gone to throw their goddamn coats on the bed yet.

Without his sister or Italy watching, Spain quickly got bolder, sliding his arms around Romano's waist so they rested there comfortably in the hallway. "I haven't seen you in a long time, Romano…"

"So?"

"Do you still…" Spain faltered. "Do you still love me like you said you did during the War?"

Romano puffed out his cheeks in the way he knew Spain liked. "No. In fact, while I was thinking about it, I think I've fallen _out_ of love with you. It was all just nerves, you know. Just fighting the whole thing, I realized it was completely wrong the way I felt about you, it wasn't what I thought…" Smirking as he watched Spain's face fall, he reached forward and guided Spain's mouth to his. Again, he found that to be something that surprised Spain all the time.

"Wow…that was…you…" Spain found his voice again and cleared his throat. "So…I take you you've fallen back in love with me?"

"Well, I figure if I'm going to hell anyway with all this War business, I may as well milk it for all its worth."

Meanwhile, Italy was still at the door, wondering how on earth every nation could have planned it so they would arrive at the same time. He hoped England wasn't going to make food; he was there just for that purpose. "Oh, Australia, don't let the marsupials climb on the pillars; they might fall!"

"A'rite mate!"

"Italy! It's been _too_ long!" As Italy turned, Prussia came at him from the night, collapsing into him with a bear hug. "You need your awesome to be regenerated. Thankfully, I'm here."

"Prussia!" Prussia had been given the 'dead nation' status, but that only implied that he had no more responsibilities. Since he hadn't been completely destroyed from the current modern world, he was still lurking around and creating useless blogs. "It's nice to see you again!" Just as Prussia loosened his hold on him, he glanced at the door to see Germany watching him.

"Germany." Prussia slinked away, leering at them before disappearing into the kitchen. He smiled a lot, but there was one, special, aged-to-perfection smile he gave Germany whenever they met again. "It's been ten years; how are you?"

"Hmm." Germany left the doorway and leaned toward Italy. "I was planning…since it was so rushed and forced the first time…perhaps today…" He held out a little velvet box and Italy didn't need to open it to see the carefully cut tomato-shaped jewel to know what it was before quickly muffling his mouth to stop any sound from coming out. "I've had plenty of time to decide. Don't say anything yet; I was planning on asking later."

Italy nodded feverishly, his hands still clamped firmly over his mouth. He would have utterly glomped him, if India didn't show up at the door at that moment bearing curry. Germany had definitely changed; he was still the stickler to rules (he was currently telling Prussia off for messing with the various artifacts in the den), but only someone who _really_ knew him could tell. India noticed; she cocked her head, her frown shifting the bindi on her forehead slightly. "Are you that excited about curry, Italy?"

They probably should have held the party at America's house, Italy noted later that night when everyone had arrived. It would have more room; but it was more fun when everyone was cramped into one place! The Nordics had gathered outside to watch Denmark and Sweden fight over some useless thing; Japan had fully healed and was now painfully listening to Korea tell anyone who would listen that he'd created millenniums. Cuba was having a row with America, but it was all in good fun as America threw his hands in the air and reached for a cigar. There was a peace agreement in the house, effective for one night; they could all be cordial to each other for one tiny moment in time.

Italy walked in to get some cannoli and found Romano sighing happily to himself. "What's up, brother?"

"None of your business." But he was smiling and Italy hoped this good mood would last when Germany popped the question. "It will be torture to clean up this place tomorrow."

"I know." There was the sound of Turkey loudly exclaiming something explosive and Greece mumbling some sort of irksome reply. Egypt drifted into the kitchen before drifting out again. "It's like a World Conference without any problems to distract them all."

"Remind me never to let you throw parties again."

"It's the end of an era, Romano. We've got to celebrate!" Italy dumped a load of dirty dishes into the sink. "I think we should all go outside when the new year starts." Nations, being nations, were completely in tune with the real time; no watch or other time-telling device was more accurate than their instinct. So when twelve midnight started inching closer, the house slowly emptied as they all wandered into the courtyard. Denmark and Sweden were slumped next to each other, although all sort of fight was gone; Denmark was clutching at an empty glass and singing. Norway had led Iceland and Finland to the other side, although he kept glancing back.

"Y2K!" America suddenly burst out, babbling incoherently about some nonsense until England pushed him into the fountain. Their water fight continued and some nations shied away to avoid getting wet.

"It's time," Italy breathed, grabbing Romano's hand. There was suddenly a hushed silence, when even fountain's splashes were quiet. Three, two, _one_.

Fireworks exploded, but that was hardly enough to drown out the noise in the courtyard. France had seized Canada and kissed him with enough luck to last a couple decades. England did an obligatory kiss, to which America made a big fuss about much to other's chagrin. Austria and Hungary were the typical married couple, exchanging a quick peck before watching other commotion, like Denmark tackling Norway. There was just so much activity that Italy turned to see Spain lead Romano into a quieter corner then to see Japan flush with Greece suspiciously next to him. There was so much happening at once, like this was a normal party and it really was a new year.

It _was_ a new year. And it was a new beginning, a chance for all of them to get things right this time around.

And Germany was making his way carefully toward him and Italy let him, holding back excitement that would make him part the crowd. Romano didn't have time (or put forth a lot of effort, admittedly) to free himself from Spain's arms to intercept when Germany reached Italy, and knelt down, and pulled out the box, the ring gleaming in the light of the fireworks.

_Yes_.

_Never too late, where the ever-after is in the hands of fate._

Owari

Note: Um, all hail the queen of cliché endings. I wanted to end on a happy note. I don't know if I could make current events into an adequate ending. I wanted it to seem like good things would happen since that's the gist of the song. Anyway, I hoped you liked reading this! It's been a long journey since the first chapter and I've definitely become a wiser person (factwise). I've still got loads to learn! For all that history talk, I hope this chapter of mostly fluff makes you smile. Thank you ALL for reading and reviewing! I for one enjoyed writing this super condensed version of WW2.


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